Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace
by Elagabalus
Summary: [AU, no magic, slightly in the future] During a cool fall night, a vampire named Harry Potter saves a dying Draco Malfoy II, giving him the dubious gift of 'immortality.' Not a typical vampire fic I do believe. [warning, crude language] ON HIATUS
1. First Moon

**Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace**

by Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**First Moon – Chapter One**

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**wax²** (waks) _v.i._ **waxed, waxed** (_Poetic_ **wax·en**)**, wax·ing 1.** To become larger gradually; increase in size or numbers; grow: said especially of the moon as it approaches fullness: opposed to _wane_. **2.** To become as specified: to _wax_ angry.

**wane** (wān) _v.i._ **waned, wan·ing 1.** To diminish in size and brilliance: opposed to _wax._ **2.** To decline or decrease gradually; draw to an end.

– _Standard Collge Dictionary_

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**Night 1**

Draco filled his lungs with the brusque autumn air and forced it back out, the warmth of his lungs lingering as a sheer cloud of vapor. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he wished summer would come strolling back; he hated the coldness, the dead things that fall brought within her quietly vicious skirts. Speaking skirts, he wished also that Zabini and Nott would hurry up and get their sorry asses out here so they could go home already. They were probably hitting on some rich little idiots with boobs and hoping to get some. Well, whatever. It wasn't like he hadn't known what they were like when he ran away from home.

Yes, Draco Malfoy II had stormed out of his very palatial home after a particularly nasty fight with his father – risking disownment and having his name blotted out from the family records _and_ (even worse) from his father's will. Well, screw all. Draco _hated_ they way everyone was always going on and on about how much he looked like his grandfather, how very alike they were, how Draco would be sure to be just as savvy a businessman as him, blah, blah, blah. Well, what if he didn't _want_ to take over Malfoy Enterprises? (Which he didn't).

He sucked at that sort of thing – acting patient in four-hour-long meetings or being polite to people he hated just to get your greedy paws on a few million. Jeebus, his sister was a helluva lot better at that sort of thing. So why the hell wouldn't Father just let her take over the business where she'd be happy and just let Draco find some rich chick to marry and would let him keep messing around as he pleased? So they'd had a huge blow-up and Draco went and crashed with Nott which probably hadn't made any impression at all on Father as the man already knew the names and addresses of all his friends.

Draco stamped his feet and huffed, hoping to work some warmth into his body – no such luck. He gazed surlily at the crowded bar where he had slipped out, escaping the smell and noise, to wait moodily out in the cold for Zabini and Nott. Suddenly, he felt a cool, dark gaze on himself. His eyes swiveled to spot a buxom, curvaceous figure in the shadows by a garbage can and a public, red plastic ashtray. From what he could see in the harsh streetlight and murky shadows, the black leather wrapped tightly around those curves, it was just some hooker waiting around for a job. So it was hardly a surprise when she slid toward him with a sly snap of her heels; he _was_ good-looking and also very rich-looking. Even up close, he couldn't see all that much except a vague, dark beauty.

"Hello there," she smiled.

"I don't have any cash," said Draco rudely, "so find somebody else to suck off."

"Hmm?" the woman murmured, not in the least bit perturbed. "Draco Malfoy II broke? I find that a bit hard to believe."

He started, staring at her more closely, even though there was nothing to see in the dark. Did she look familiar?

"How do you know my name?" he demanded. "Did my father send you? If so, tell him he can go fuck himself for all I care –" He abruptly stopped. Something in the sudden gleam of her eye from a door opening, shedding a layer of brightness across her high pitched features and riled-up look, made him uneasy.

She tutted. "Such a potty mouth!" This seemed to be very funny to her. "I think you need to be taught a lesson from Aunt Bella."

And before he could blink, Draco's face slammed against the pavement.

-

In a few months, mere blinks of the eye, it would be exactly forty years since he had died.

It wasn't that he was looking forward to that anniversary, or anything. The thought just left him feeling nostalgic. Forty years was a long time for most people. You could be born in forty years, go to college, get married, have children, and maybe even become a grandparent. All in forty years. So why exactly did it seem like these years had passed by before he had even time to savor their precious moments and thoughts, while the days were terribly long and a little lonely? Maybe it was better that way. For him, at least.

Harry huffed a little, not really feeling the cold. In the reflective surface of store windows, he caught sight of himself. Pausing for a minute, he inspected his smooth skin, utterly devoid of wrinkles, his slightly inadequate nose, reddened mouth and cheeks, and the bright green eyes behind frameless spectacles. The face of a fifteen-year-old boy.

He looked away, a little embarrassed to be checking himself out, and continued his aimless wander. Little pockets of people passed by him, joking, laughing, or maybe even fighting. He brushed shoulders with a group of giggling girls probably too young to be out so late and an older couple probably too old. They passed too quickly, everything they did was too fast! Or maybe that was the point; he no longer had a say in the matter, anyway.

Harry shook himself to dispel such gloomy thoughts. He was passing into the part of town ridden with bars and liquor stores. Maybe he'd go for a drink to ease up his nerves.

But he stopped in his tracks, all motion stilled. That scent in the air – tiny particles of it wafting on the autumn night chills. Cautiously, eyes slitted, he followed the subtle, enticing trace. And now he could hear painful groans and a distorted, delighted muttering. Harry picked up his speed, dashing between buildings encrusted with mildew and water stains. He stopped at the head of an alleyway choked with stinking, rusty garbage cans and slimy, bloated plastic trash bags. Even with those putrid smells, Harry could clearly taste the blood in the air.

A tall, dark woman stood over a slumped body on the ground. Her face was terrible and triumphant. She looked up at him, and smiled a smile meant for a toothpaste commercial.

"Hello, Harry," she purred. "Sorry, but it's a little late to get a taste."

He glared at her before stepping a little close to look at the body. A man, very young and very badly ripped into. The blood-scent was almost overwhelming.

"You killed him?" Harry said incredulously. "How stupid can you be –"

She turned away from the body, her full attention focused on him now. "Ah-ah-aah. Be careful not to make me angry, Harry."

He barely blinked. "I could take you any day of the week."

She laughed low in her throat and slithered past him on clicking heels.

"Hey," he muttered, "at least get rid of the body."

She was already disappearing into the black shadows. "You do it, if you're so concerned." And she was gone.

Harry felt extremely nervous now. Get rid of the body and deter any suspicious police or run like hell? He didn't want to have to help _that_ woman, but maybe he'd left a trace of himself at the scene of the crime. Harry looked down at his shoes and the ground, inspecting for footprints. But wouldn't it be even more suspicious if they found out he had tampered with a body? He glanced at the dead man, feeling panic starting to rise within him. He'd never had to deal with this sort of situation before; he was always careful to take just enough and not to glut. Harry edged closer. The poor guy at least deserved a proper burial rather than rotting shamelessly among filthy trash right out in the sun.

Trying to ignore the smell of blood, he crouched and gingerly rotated the face toward him. Sharp features, blonde hair, a haughtily arching brow – they stirred deep, distant memories within him.

Harry frowned. "...Malfoy?"

And to his great surprise, the man's eyes slid open sluggishly. His unfocused gaze wandered drunkenly. A wordless murmur escaped his lips painfully.

"Shit," Harry cursed. He couldn't call an ambulance; it was a little known fact that a new standard procedure had been set for vampire attacks. Not only did the people actually attacked receive treatment, but those involved in the incident were also checked for an unnoticed bite, and Harry had no intention of submitting himself to that. He'd heard of certian bigotist doctors running more tests than nessecary and some poor idiot ending up being accused of attacking the person they were trying to help. But he couldn't just call for help and leave the guy alone... Bellatrix might come back. She was a tricky witch, so he couldn't risk calling and keeping the body in sight but hiding himself; plus, they would probably find him easily... Making a decision, Harry pulled off his jacket and draped it over the barely conscious man.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Harry whispered. "So stay alive." And he ran out of the alley as fast as his legs would allow. Need to find a payphone.

-

"Stay alive." Why were those words so familiar? His brain kept repeating to him, like an idiot bird, that he was in pain. It didn't seem to matter so much when his memory opened before his consciousness, slipping from the subconscious like a naughty child. It was like the universe was gushing and flowing from his heart into his veins. The stars forming white blood cells and distant glimpses into the past. Glitches in his fleshy gray nuts and bolts revealed the future to him, but the revelations collapsed like soggy bread. The first kiss and the last kiss. Taste of death. Swirling emotions too bright and complex to handle, like the sun is to human eyes. Stay alive, stay alive, stay alive.

-

"Thanks again, Neville," Harry said, positioning himself awkwardly on the floor of the sedan.

"Don't mention it," the driver murmured, pulling out into the main road.

Squatting, Harry nervously eyed the blank face of the third passenger. "Could he have a concussion or something? Should I do something with his head?"

"It looked like the blood was mostly from his nose."

"Right."

They were silent for a while. Neville seemed so calm. Had he always been like that? Or had age had some gradual affect on him? The hands on the steering wheel, gently coaxing the car into a turn, were lined and crevassed, but firm and pliable all the same. There was more gray than brown on what he could see of his head. Just another reminder of Harry's own solitariness.

They parked in front of a very business-like building. As Neville ran to unlock the door, Harry popped open the car door and carefully pulled out the young man. Neville came back and together they pushed into his pediatrics practice, supporting the half-conscious man who made barely any sound. Carefully, they placed him on an examining table, the thin sheet of paper crinkling in protest.

Harry edged out of Neville's way as he set to work, probing the man's vitals. It was a relief to at least have that small distance from the source of the metallic scent now pervading the little room decorated with smiling cartoon giraffes. In the sudden fluorescent light, Harry could clearly see now the webs of lines around Neville's mouth and eyes, the slower, yet still urgent, or 'stately' way in which he moved, and that indefinable quality one had with experience and a full life, a secret whisper of many, many thoughts and treasured moments in time. The innumerable impressions, small or large, the thousands of people you meet in a lifetime left on you, giving you part of themselves so that you could never truthfully claim to be your own. Harry wondered if all his old friends felt as bitter as he did, looking at him, as he felt looking at them.

Neville made a sound of frustration.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"He's lost too much blood," the man answered. "You probably found him too late."

"Can't you just give him a blood transfusion?" asked Harry, his spirits plummeting further. "He's type O."

Neville shook his head sadly. "This isn't an ER. We're only equipped to handle the sniffles or pneumonia at the worst. I don't think there was anything we could have done even with the best equipment in the world." He inspected his dying patient's face, his thoughts quite evident from his own face. "Too much of his body smashed, probably tons of internal bleeding, and then the bite..."

Harry sidled closer. The man didn't even look like he was breathing any more.

"You know who this is, don't you?" Neville said softly.

Harry nodded. "I didn't think he'd look like _that_, though. I really didn't want to ever meet him." Cautiously, Harry wiped away the bloody mess under his nose and over his mouth. A cold hand shot up, scaring the living daylights out of him.

A tight, desperate grip on Harry's arm, the nearly dead young man glared up at him balefully. Using his other hand, he clung to Harry's shirt and dragged himself into an awkward sitting position. Harry stood stock-still, afraid to even breath.

Eyes cloudy, the man said slowly, "I... will not... die." He swallowed, swaying. "Don't... dare... let die."

Harry met his eyes nervously, amazed at his strength. "You –"

"Know... what you –" He gasped and gurgled until his lips were dark crimson. "What you... are. Give me... Give me..." The vise on Harry's shirt slackened and the trembling body lay back down, but the icy silver gaze never once wavered from his face. He continued to mutter those words, "Give me."

"Harry..."

He was suddenly made aware again of Neville's presence. Turning to him slightly, Harry whispered, "I think you should go. You aren't going to like this."

The old man looked alarmed. "Harry, think about this."

He sat down beside the blonde. "I don't think it's something you're _supposed_ to think about."

Neville continued to look conflicted for a moment. Then he met Harry's gaze. He seemed to see something there to silence his objections and quietly left.

Harry supported the young man's head so that he could slip his legs, folded indian-style, under and gently laid his cranium in his lap. To no success, he tried to still his fluttering heart and rolled up a sleeve. He eyed the blue vein beneath the skin of his wrist. Holding it to his lips, he felt the little pricks of pain as his own teeth slipped into the translucent skin of his wrist. Blood fell hotly from his canines onto his tongue – a reminder of when he'd last drunk, the memories as vivid as the flavor driving his taste-buds and brain wild. He removed his wrist from his mouth.

Adrenaline making his heart beat in his ears and in his throat, Harry pried open the soft and compliant mouth. One last inhale, a glimpse of his pale flesh releasing dark blood, and Harry laid his tiny wounds over the man's lips.

At first, the tongue merely ventured out languorously for a small taste, surely foreign and strange, but as Harry put a gentle hand to the back of his neck and leaned his head forward towards the tiny flow, there was a tepid grasp of the man's teeth around the under-flesh of his wrist and a gradual suck on the tiny breaks in his skin. And then he felt the other's hunger finally being piqued as cool hands came up to clasp his arm firmly and the circle of teeth bit deeply into his wrist, causing even more blood-flow. Feeling dizzy, Harry leaned back when shooting pains lanced up his arm and his heart felt like it was careening madly out of control. He felt as if his feet were being knocked out from under him, as if he were being drowned, buried alive, and his heart pathetically flailing under a cruel vise, a hand punching through his shirt, skin, ribs, muscles. Deja vu overrode his senses and Harry cried out, struggling wildly.

The sound of quietness and harsh breathing filled his ears. Harry opened his eyes to see the perforated ceiling tiles and the yellow rectangle lights. _He_ seemed to be the patient now, lying on the sadly rumpled sheet of tissue covering the examining table. He lifted his wrist to eye-level. Already healing, new skin forming itself neatly (it itched). Sitting up cautiously, Harry looked down to see the young man blinking owlishly up at him in a crumpled disarray on the floor.

"You kicked me," he said with child-like surprise. His eyes promptly closed and his breathing slowed to a steady pace. He'd gone to sleep.

The door opened and Neville rushed in. "What was that sound?"

Harry stepped down gingerly. Rather dizzy. "I think I kicked him."

Neville bent toward the young man on the floor, wincing and muttering, "Damn arthritis..." Watching for several minutes as the worst of the wounds healed themselves gradually, he said nothing.

Harry stooped toward him, slinging one of his limp arms around his own shoulders. Neville grabbed the other arm and helped him prop him up to an almost vertical position.

"I'll help you back to your apartment," Neville said, pushing the door open and flicking off the lights.

"Thanks."

"I hope you made the right decision."

"Me too," Harry answered earnestly.

But as he looked down at Draco Malfoy II's almost serene face, he couldn't help the awkward lurch of his stomach. Oh God, he thought, what in the world have I done?

* * *

**A/N**: This makes me nostalgic; I used to devour Anne Rice books like actual rice ::has dorky sense of humor::. But my vampires are rather different as you can and will see.

Oh, and this Draco isn't the real Draco, really. If you haven't already figured it out, it'll be explained later...

(I pretty much know nothing about medical-like things, so if there's something fishy in this chapter, sorry.)

I already have three more chapters written; their release dependent on reviews, to be honest. ::is just a bitch like that::


	2. Second Moon

**Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace**

by Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Second Moon – Chapter Two**

**

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**

**Day 2**

Draco heaved limply over the toilet as his stomach contracted painfully. It was one thing to wake up in a strange bedroom (he'd been through that), but it was quite another to wake up in a strange bedroom with a gawd-awful hangover (which he'd also been through, but it was still unpleasant). Clammy from head to toe, he wiped his mouth and dragged himself to sit against the tiled wall, which wasn't very far as it was rather cramped quarters in the bathroom. Not that what he could remember of the bedroom was any better – tiny single with only a thin sheet, only a light clutter of clothes.

To make matters worse, he couldn't remember a single thing from the night before. Well, maybe getting sick of that bar and then waiting for a while out in the cold air. A woman? Tall and dark? So at least last night's companion wasn't some freak he'd have to have a short, awkward talk with before running like the devil. Maybe she'd even be up to a couple more days of fun.

But there was also the weird-ass dream he thought he had. He'd been dying when someone had saved him by pulling their own heart of their chest, veins attached, and given it to him. He'd drunk from the veins as if they were straws and the heart was a piña colada or lava flow. But that would mean he was now a vampire, which couldn't be because the tiny square window above him showed that it was well past noon. Liquor did weird things to your head. Although he couldn't remember drinking all that much (point proven).

The door slid open. Expecting a buxom brunette, Draco was somewhat disappointed to see a skinny guy with black hair and glasses giving him an exasperated look from the doorway.

"You could have at least _aimed_ for the toilet," he scolded. He looked younger than Draco.

He was about to snap back irritably at the sudden noise, but was surprised to realize that his head didn't hurt at all. It was his stomach that felt flabby and weak. "I did," Draco muttered. He tried to keep down any new onslaughts of nausea.

The boy looked a bit more sympathetic. "All right. I'll clean up. Go sit on the couch or something."

Draco eased cautiously to his feet. "Jeez, did I really drink all that much last night? I thought you were a babe with a real rack." The he realized something. "Oh. Wait. I'm still wearing my clothes from yesterday..."

The boy gave him a dry look as he flushed the toilet, Draco's vomit disappearing down the drain.

He gave himself a good look. "But. They're torn. And bloody." He eyed the other nervously. "You don't happen to be really into S&M do you?"

"Go sit on the couch," was all he said.

Draco was too confused, muddled, and nauseous to argue. The bedroom was also very small, and relatively unfurnished with just the midget-y single, a couple of lamps, and some pillows thrown about. He passed under another doorway, sans the door, into a sunny and somehow open feeling living-room/kitchenette that was only marginally larger than the bedroom. A two-seat sofa sat against the low wall separating the main room and the kitchenette. He sat down there and looked at the shabby, but apparently well-stocked bookcase, and the stacks of newspapers on the floor, some yellowed with great age and others looking hot off the press. There was an ancient CD player in the corner. He stared at the lack of TV or computer. A rather deprived (or even depraved) individual.

He should leave right now, Draco decided as he looked back down at the sorry and queer state of his coincidentally very expensive clothes. Yes, that would indeed be the best decision. But he stayed rooted to the spot for no apparent reason he could see.

The boy came out of the bedroom, wiping his wet hands on the sides of his jeans. He inspected Draco.

"Right. What do you want first, shower or talk?" he said perfunctorily.

"Err." The simple question seemed to send Draco entirely off-balance. His tone indicated there was something _to_ talk about. Which made him uneasy and consequently want to dither for as long as possible. But if he took a shower, he would have to put back on his own clothes judging from the boy's boniness. And that idea was more horrible than actually staying filthy in the torn and bloody clothes.

The other seemed to realize something. He disappeared in the bedroom again for a few minutes before coming out with a bundle of what he thought were clothes. "Old cat lady upstairs gave them to me. Apparently her son died in one of the Middle East wars and kept all his clothes. She's a perverted old hag, but her cats are nice." He dropped the bundle on Draco's lap.

He stared down at them blankly. They looked at least twenty years out of style, but the whole retro thing was in so... Draco meekly wobbled to his feet and shuffled back into the bedroom and into the bathroom. As the hot (thank God!) water ran over his back, stilling his nausea a little, he felt himself getting back to his old self, which meant he was starting to get annoyed. Who was this brat to order him about? Okay, admittedly, he might have screwed around with the guy, but still. And what the hell was this 'talk' thing about? Draco'd (and maybe the boy too) gotten drunk, they'd slept together, end of story. What else was there to say?

He strode out of the bedroom, fully intending to give him a piece of his mind, but then the sight of the boy standing at the open window where a large, surly cat wallowed and peeling back a tin of sardines – for some reason it made him feel ill again. Draco sank once more into the slightly dusty sofa and watched as the boy placed the little tin in front of the absurd cat's nose, smiling a little as it inhaled the reeking, puny fish. He swore he could smell it from where he sat. The boy finally seemed to notice him again.

"She gets mad if I feed them," he informed him. "Says they're getting fat, but I don't much care. They don't seem to either."

"They could become diabetic," Draco said rather lamely.

"Do cats get diabetes?" the other asked.

"I don't know."

Unflustered, the boy just watched the cat for a while before sitting next to Draco, legs folded and facing him. He stuck out his hand. "Harry Potter."

What? What hairy potters? Was that a gay euphemism? Like, burly gardeners, or something? Draco just stared at him for a while.

Putting on an overly patient face and tone of voice, the boy said, "_This_ is the part where you put _your_ hand in _mine_ and say _your_ name. And then we _shake_ our hands. And that doesn't mean _vibrate_. It means going _up_ and _down_." He was grinning.

His brain seeming to snap back into focus, Draco scowled. "I'm not a goddam idiot. It's Draco Malfoy." He didn't shake hands.

Still grinning, Harry Potter put down his hand. "Glad to know both bits of info. I was starting to worry you'd gone brain-dead before –" He stopped and an entirely unamused, different expression came over his face.

"What?" Draco demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Potter bit his lip and looked down at his smooth, thin hands. "How much do you remember from last night?"

He frowned. "I remember a woman. Tall and dark-haired."

"That's all?"

"A weird dream."

"Describe it to me."

Feeling impatient, he said, "I don't see –"

"Just describe it."

Draco did, watching as Potter nodded and looked very unsurprised, almost satisfied.

He hesitated. "Okay. Whatever we discuss right now, promise not to freak out or do anything rash."

"Uh-huh," Draco said unconvincingly. He should have bolted the moment he saw the lack of computer and TV.

"Promise."

"Sure."

Potter looked aggravated, but didn't try to pursue it. "Look, how much do you know about vampires?"

Deciding that to humor him was the fastest way out of this situation, Draco replied, "What everyone else knows. That the asshole government won't release their documented names and want to classify them as a 'minority.'"

"Not that, I mean, what are they like?"

Draco shrugged. "Blood-sucking parasites who only wake up in the night, can't see their reflection, super strong and fast, and turn into bats."

Potter was grinning again. "Now, really. If vampires were all those things, how do you think the government would be able to keep tabs on them?"

He frowned. "I'm sure they have their ways. They're always keeping secrets."

"What if I told you that vampires aren't any of those things and that the government still can't keep a complete census of them?"

"I'd say you were off your rocker," Draco drawled, "but I already thought that."

"Well," Potter said slowly, unperturbed by the question on his sanity, "I'll tell you this. It's very hard to make another vampire. That's why there aren't that many and so they can hide themselves easily. You've heard about the bill that they want to pass that makes the test for vampirism mandatory for every citizen? Well, of course it won't go through because there would be too many people who would want to raise hell on the basis of invasion of their privacy."

"I don't see what this has to do with anything," Draco told him.

Potter sat back, looking at him. "Oh, it has a lot to do with _us_."

'Us'? Since when was that an appropriate pronoun to refer to them? He was about to object before the boy continued.

"Since you died last night."

Draco stared at him incredulously. "Right. And what's this? Heaven or hell?"

Potter shook his head, all seriousness. "No. You see, I made you into a vampire last night."

He didn't say anything. He was mentally planning to run right out the front door the minute the best chance popped up. Inspecting the very bony boy, he decided he would definitely have the upper hand if it came to a fist fight, but he didn't know if there were any knives or something hidden on him.

"For some reason," Potter said calmly, watching Draco carefully, "another vampire named Bellatrix Lestrange tried to kill you. And I say 'for some reason' because if it were for the 'obvious reason' she would have just cornered you and drunk you dry. But she brutally attacked you, and unless she's gone even further off the deep end, there was a special reason why she did that to you."

Now, if Draco hadn't thought the boy was fit for the loony bin before, he definitely did now. Bellatrix Lestrange was the name of his great-great-aunt who'd been six feet under, along with her husband, for decades now. His mother had told him about people like this. Creepy-ass stalkers who found out intimate details about you and skewed that information into their own fantasies.

Draco decided he'd had enough of this bull. "Right-o. As fascinating as all this is, I think there was definitely something I had to do today. So I'll be seeing you." He made to leave.

"_Stop_!"

And stop he did. Confused, he tried to reach for the door leading to what he hoped was an escape route. But his body seemed to refuse what his mind commanded.

"_Sit_."

And sit he did. Draco stared at the skinny boy, suddenly realizing that _he_ was the reason he seemed unable to take control of his own limbs and ligaments.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do that," Potter said, clearly looking unhappy. "But you need to listen to this. I can't just let a fledgling vampire out into the world without any guidance."

What the _hell_? Since when did scrawny whack-jobs order around a _Malfoy_? Let alone _the_ Draco Malfoy II?

"So you were attacked," Potter continued hurriedly. "I found you just as Bellatrix was leaving your body in an alley. I thought you were dead, you were so banged up."

"If I was so _injured_," Draco whispered icily, "then how is it I'm perfectly fine now?"

"The bodies of vampires automatically heal themselves," he explained.

"I see."

Potter scowled at him. "So when I found out you were still barely alive, I called an old friend who's a doctor now."

"Why didn't you just call nine-one-one?"

"If I had, they would've wanted to examine me too, and I don't want to give up my freedom," said Potter. "And I couldn't just call and leave. Bellatrix might have come back."

"Understandable."

The boy looked like he wanted very much to hit him, but just inhaled deeply. "So my doctor friend came and took us to his practice. But there wasn't anything he could do. You'd lost too much blood and had too many injuries. And then..." He paused as all traces of irritation faded from his expression. "You somehow managed to grab onto me. You said you... didn't want to die. That you knew what I was. That you wanted me to give you something."

"And you took that to be your vampire blood which you promptly sacrificed for my sake," he drawled.

Glancing back up at him, expression unreadable, he said, "In so many words, yes. Then the doctor helped me get you to my apartment." He gestured around them at the meager setting.

Draco sat back. He'd been trying to tell his legs to get back up ever since he'd sat down again, but the thought kept being squashed into oblivion so that he felt vaguely rattled.

Potter sighed. "You obviously don't believe me." He sat thinking for a second. "Look, I'll prove it to you." He stood and muddled around the kitchen for a moment before coming back into the living room and sitting down again. He had a sort of all-purpose kitchen knife in his hands, which looked quite sharp enough for general uses.

Draco felt himself go still as apprehension and a bit of fear rose in his gullet. Oh god. This is where he died. In some cardboard hovel at the hands of a maniac. It wasn't fair! He hadn't even turned eighteen yet! He hadn't even had a legal smoke or drink yet!

He flinched as Potter seemed to come at him with the knife, but only heard the ripping of fabric. He opened his clenched eyes to see the knife making a tear into the couch.

"See? Sharp enough," Potter said.

"Yes," swallowed Draco, "quite sharp."

He flinched yet again as the knife rose yet again. But to his surprise and somewhat delight, the blade merely bit into Potter's palm. He hissed at the pain, but showed Draco the very evident blood blooming across the cut. Draco, for some reason he couldn't fathom, felt suddenly very light-headed and almost sleepy. A delicious metallic scent filled him with an abrupt, voracious hunger. He stared at Potter's cut and only felt the faintest surprise, in his stupor, to see the blood slipping away from the lines on the unwrinkled palm and pouring back into the open wound. Before his eyes, thousands and thousands of cells regenerated and the skin knitted itself back together neatly until you could no longer tell the boy had just sliced into his palm with a kitchen knife.

Draco felt a sudden coolness in all of his organs. "So you are a vampire," he said slowly. "What is it that you want?" He glanced around. "Money? Not to be rude, but you seem in need of it." Bribes were always a good option.

Potter looked impatient. "I don't care about money! Haven't you been listening? _I made you into a vampire last night_. I'm trying to take responsibility for it."

"Right," answered Draco carefully, trying not to anger him. "But you don't exactly see me climbing eighty-story buildings, or lifting boulders, or instantly healing myself –" He cried out in pain as Potter grabbed his hand and sliced across his arm in the same moment. "Fuck! What the hell do you –"

"_Watch_!" the boy commanded.

And he watched. He watched, through that same torpor that overwhelmed all his senses, as the large gash on his arm sloppily spewed out streams of thick blood. Oh fucking Christ, he thought. This lunatic is going to make me watch with him as I bleed to death. But then his mind quieted when the same process worked on his own arm. The blood fled back to the cut and skin zipped itself back together.

He stared at his arm stupidly. "It itches."

"Don't scratch," Potter warned him. "It makes for weak skin which will be harder to heal later on."

"Oh," Draco said. "Mine was a lot faster than yours."

Potter frowned, but answered, "Well, you did take a lot of my blood last night. Actually, I think you could probably just change someone with less than ten ounces."

"Ten ounces," he repeated. "Why don't I remember anything you say happened?"

"Well, you were unconscious for a lot of it. Plus, you were really close to death. I think the closer you are, the less you remember after..."

"Ten ounces," Draco merely repeated.

Potter leaned toward him. "Are you okay? You look a little –"

A little what, he never discovered, because Draco had leapt up and ran to the open window. He vomited out into the open air though his stomach by now was surely empty. The fat cat, which had been dozing, protested by screaming and giving his face a good clawing. Draco cried out at the stinging pain on his cheek, but made a sort of groan/sob when he realized he could no longer feel the parallel cuts and there was no blood. He sank to the floor, burying his head in his arms. He kept repeating "Fucking Christ," to himself, as if the Holy Spirit himself would swoop down from the blue sky and erase such awful memories. The 'fucking Christs' ended when he realized he'd somehow transformed the words into 'sucking fritos.' He just kept his head in his arms, hoping if he finally had to look up he'd be back at Nott's or at least in his room at Malfoy Manor.

"Would you rather be dead?"

Unwillingly, Draco looked at Potter still sitting on his raggedy sofa. He had a rather sad and awkward expression.

"I don't know," he moaned. He clenched two handfuls of his hair. Okay. Time to pull himself together and take it like a man. So. He was a vampire. Not the end of the world. That meant he would never die. That no one could hurt him, judging by Potter's little demonstration. Didn't mean he had to give up life. He could still party. Could still...

"Hey," Draco said, looking up. "Can vampires still have sex?"

Potter started, not expecting that particular question. "Well, yes, but I don't think that's your biggest problem at the moment."

Draco stood, casually dusting himself off and feeling his old confidence settle back in. "But you see, there are no problems at all. All I have to do is get a hooker or something when I feel thirsty. They're always turning up dead, so no one will be wiser or actually even care."

Potter's confusion transformed instantly into anger. "You fucking idiot. Don't you realize that there've been indictments already against people suspected of doing just that? They only get off because the test for vampirism is inadmissible in a court of law. It's only a matter of time before some clever prosecutor finds a way around it."

"Okay, so maybe I'll switch to assholes who have a ton of people who hate them anyway," Draco said angrily. "I'll figure something out."

"You don't know the first thing about surviving as you are now," replied Potter fiercely. "You'll be killed before the week's over by some other vampire who hates stupid fledglings that threaten their existence."

"Load of bull," Draco sneered. "Vampires can't be killed. You just proved that to me."

"Oh, they can be killed," he said darkly.

"Oh, well _alright_," he sighed heavily. "I'll be sure to lay off the garlic and avoid churches from now on."

Potter laughed out-right. "You idiot! Garlic and churches!" His chuckles died. "No, I'm afraid a vampire's death is _much_ more painful."

An abrupt knocking at the door startled them both. Potter's feet meet the carpet as he stood, frowning at the door. He maneuvered around the sofa and into the kitchen. Unlocking the door, he pulled it open. Smiling gorgeously, Bellatrix Lestrange stood in the hallway, her very friendly demeanor translating as sinister and predatorial. Potter instantly tried to slam shut the door, but she inserted a single heel. She flung the door back open and, before he could blink, gave Potter a swift punch to the stomach. He fell to his knees, the air knocked right out of his system.

Bellatrix stepped around him, eyes on Draco.

"My, my. Doesn't the little Malfoy heir seem _different_?"

* * *

**A/N**: Oh noes! A cliffie! Jeez, I never get to have such dramatic ones in WiF (shameless self-promotion).

"Hairy potters"... Pfft. THAT IS SOME FUNNY SHIT, MAN. Lol (for realz, shiznits.)


	3. Third Moon

**Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace**

by Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Third Moon – Chapter Three**

* * *

Draco stared at Bellatrix Lestrange, quite a bit shocked. Which was understandable considering the fact that she ought to have died a long, long time ago. Well, he supposed she _had_. Just not in the customary manner. He stepped away from her menacing sidle and realized that even though he would heal instantly from any wound, he would still rather not feel the pain that accompanied said wound before such relief. So, when she made a sudden lunge toward him, he instantly plucked up one of Potter's heavy books and threw it at her head. She dodged lithely while scooping up something from the floor. Draco realized what that something was when he had a face full of clothes blinding him. 

The clinging sweater and pants muffled his startled cry as she somehow tripped him and he fell to the floor with a crash. He managed to scrape the clothes from his face, which wasn't a good thing, as he barely had time to see a black heel rushing toward him before his nose spurted painfully and his mouth tasted of copper. But then another pair of feet flew past his head and Bellatrix hit the carpet with a furious shriek.

"Run, Draco! Out the door!"

But he could barely hear anything over the pounding of his own heart and the wet gushing of his nose. He felt so tired and _thirsty_. It was like being horny but without the power to solve the problem. He tried to clamber to his feet, but his limbs moved through molasses and since when was the air so _thick_? He could barely breath for all the blood scent multiplying among the oxygens, the carbons, the nitrogens, and whatever the hell else was in the atmosphere.

As if from very, very far away, Draco watched as not-dead-Bellatrix kicked at Potter, who cursed and stepped backward. Both bare-handed, the two continued to spar until Potter had her back up toward the bedroom door. Feinting as if to make some complex, ancient Asian kick-maneauver-thingy, he merely bull-rushed her. He shoved her backwards into the room beyond and she snarled, lioness-esque. Hurling the door closed, Potter yelled something at him.

Draco muttered incomprehensibly.

"_Get the goddam chair from the kitchen! Now!_"

Obediently, but not by his own conscious demand, his body leapt up from his sprawl on the floor to grab blindly at a wooden chair and shove it into Potter's waiting hands. He forced it under the door handle. Inside the room, Bellatrix screamed with frustration and continuously slammed against the fragile door. He'd barely time to note this fact before Potter whirled him around and pushed him out into the hallway. His hand was grabbed, and he felt himself being dragged down the corridor and into a stairwell.

"There's no time for the elevator!" Potter muttered.

Draco vaguely remembered saying something about the elevator a second before. But Potter was hauling him down the stairs and he couldn't think very well for all the red and the motion and the terrible thirst. And then they were suddenly someplace very warm and sunny and Potter kept saying things to him, but he didn't understand a bit.

"Why're speaking in different language?" Draco slurred.

Potter shot him an irritable look. And then he suddenly couldn't breath because his face was full of water. He choked and gasped as the pressure on his neck released him from his momentary aquatic prison. Draco jerked his head out of the water.

He was kneeling by a large water fountain, cherubs vomiting the probably utterly filthy water cheerily. People around them stared and giggled. Shoving his drenched hair out of his eyes, Draco glared up at Potter. He merely grinned back.

"Back to our normal bitchy self, are we?"

Draco wiped at his face with his sleeve, still glaring. "You fucker –"

"'– Just saved my life. ' Yes, but no need for thanks. _Really_." He gave him a pointed look.

He felt himself turn pink. "All right. _Fine_." He furiously tried to dry himself off further. Not much success. But it was a little warmer than usual, so maybe he'd dry off quickly.

"Was the near-drowning really necessary?"

"You should have heard yourself," he chuckled. "Blood tends to drive fledglings crazy until they learn how to control themselves. And you get more and more immune to it with age."

He harumphed, rubbing his hair into a frenzy.

"Hey, c'mon," Potter said, tugging at his sleeve. "I see a payphone."

"I'm _good_," Draco snapped. "_Thanks_ all the same."

He rolled his eyes. "As much as it may come as a surprise to you, the world doesn't _actually_ revolve around your wants and needs. I'm going to use it."

"I'll just stay here," he sulked. And run the minute you aren't looking.

"You know," Potter said casually, "Bellatrix isn't an exactly _unique_ sort of person among vampires."

"_Goddamit_!" swore Draco loudly, shocking a group of old biddies. "Fine. I'm going to tag along with you for a while. But just until you've told me all your goddamed crap about 'surviving.'" He put on a very bad and very nasal imitation of Potter.

"As you wish," he answered nonchalantly and turned away, obviously expecting him to follow. Which he did. Potter stopped in front of a black payphone with lurid advertisements taped all over. Draco sat down glumly on the low wall beside it. Pushing some change into its slots, the boy quickly pushed in a number and waited for a minute.

"Hey! It's Harry," he said in the same tone he'd used when talking about the cats owned by the old lady who lived above him. "Oh, what're you doing over there?... Really? How is she?... That's great. Listen, can you tell my parents not to come over to the apartment for a while?... _No_, I'm not keeping –... _No, she's not a sex slave because there is no_ –"

Draco gave him a funny look. Potter rolled his eyes.

"Look, just get off the damn phone, Sirius. Put Mom or Dad on... Right, bye you old lech... Hey, Mom... Yes, I heard... Umm..." Potter glanced at him suddenly. "Sure. I'll be there. But look, I tried to tell Sirius this, but he was being an idiot so. I need you all stay away from the apartment for a while... Yes, I'm fine. It would just save me a lot of worrying if you'd promise not to go there... Yeah, and do you remember that number I gave you a few years ago? Well, call it if there's trouble... No, I'm telling you the truth. I'm fine. You don't need to worry. I'll be over to see the baby... All right. Bye. Love you too."

Draco stretched. "Your parents are still alive? And having babies? You must not have been dead very long." The 'so what gives you the right to lecture me' was implied.

Potter bit his lip, looking hurt for some reason. "It's not theirs. It's my niece's." He rummaged around in his jeans pocket. "I still have some more change. Do you want to call your family?"

Draco frowned. He'd forgotten that little fact. What was he going to tell them? "Well, yeah, see, Mommy and Daddy, the reason I don't have a single wrinkle at fifty is because, you know, I'm just sort of _dead_." It was almost amusing to imagine Father's face as he said that. He guessed he could just 'disappear' from their lives. After all, he'd already run away from home. He would be glad never to see his father again, he'd get over his mother soon enough, but his sister... Crane was in general a very cool little sister. She took everything in so calmly and could be so rational when he felt like he was going out of his head. And he had to admit, he'd been missing her lately. Well, there was only them, as his crappy friends didn't really count, so maybe he'd just kinda forget them after a while. Things got better with time, right?

"No thanks," Draco answered, waving away Potter's offering.

"Okay," he said as he shoved the coins back into his pocket. He inspected Draco. "I bet you're pretty hungry by now."

"Yes, actually," he said with surprise as he felt the sudden pangs of his stomach.

Potter looked around the bright square. "Well, come on. I have a little bit of cash."

Wait, he thought they were going to go find some blood. What did cash have to do with it? He soon found out as he was lead into a shabby diner almost deserted by the lunch crowd and not yet appealing to the dinner crowd. Potter slid into a window booth, the plastic covered cushion beneath him squeaking cheaply. Draco sat across from him, feeling rather confused.

"I don't understand," he complained.

Potter waved at a waitress lounging by the bar. "You will."

She sauntered over, a cigarette poking out of her mouth. "What can I do for you?"

"Can we just get an order of dry toast and some bananas or applesauce?"

"Suure." She sauntered away, her wide behind swaying precariously.

"Sounds tasty," Draco commented.

"It will be."

She seemed to return in seconds, plopping a plate down on the table. Potter shoved it toward him.

"Eat."

Draco stared down at it disdainfully. He glanced up at the boy. "I can refuse if I want to?"

"Do you want to?" Potter asked. "I bet you really are hungry."

"Oysters Rockefeller sound more appetizing at the moment," he retorted.

"At the moment they do," said Potter obliquely. "Just try. It can't hurt."

"You don't know that..." he grumbled but picked up the toast all the same and nibbled at it.

And all of sudden his stomach squirmed unpleasantly and nothing, absolutely no amount of money in the world would have made him even look at an oyster Rockefeller. But he was still hungry, and so the nausea and the hunger raged a querulous war within his protesting stomach. He forced the toast down and made himself start in on the applesauce, feeling as if he were a valiant soldier fighting to the end.

"Stomach trouble, huh?" the waitress puffed over her cigarette.

"Yep," Potter answered cheerily.

"Well," she said, going toward the kitchen, "the bathroom's just over there if you lose the fight."

Draco moaned. "Since when does some freaking applesauce defeat a va –" His shin was kicked under the table.

"Ever since they needed to keep their voices down," hissed Potter, leaning toward him.

"Okay, okay!" he sulked. "I thought we wouldn't need to _eat_. As in _food_ food."

"Well, you were wrong," he informed Draco. "We can also go out in the sun, obviously. We have reflections, don't sleep in coffins unless you just want to for kicks, crosses don't particularly bother us nor does garlic. We can't turn into bats or lift cars or climb up eighty stories. We don't all have pasty white skin. We can be killed..."

"What _can_ we do?"

"We heal ourselves instantly, and I guess, in theory, can live forever."

"What about that thing where you can tell me what to do?" demanded Draco, feeling annoyance rise in him again at the thought.

Looking abashed, Potter didn't meet his eyes. "For a while after you make a fledgling, you have a certain power over them." He looked up earnestly. "But I only did it those times for your own good! I swear I won't try to abuse that power."

Draco didn't say anything for a while, in fear of blowing banana chunks. He still felt peeved about that little fact, but it's not like there was anything he could do about it and Potter didn't seem like the type who could lie easily, anyway.

"Why aren't _you _eating?"

The boy looked relieved. "I do eat; just not often. You gradually lose the need for it," Potter explained. "And you feel so queasy now because you've just been made. Blood, even though you'll really want it, is going to make you sick like this until your body gets used to the new diet. And even food won't be that much better for a couple of days."

"When can I start drinking blood?" Draco asked.

"When food doesn't do this to you," answered Potter, waving at him vaguely. "And you aren't going to start off on human blood right away. You'll begin with fish or birds, probably. They have the simplest minds."

"What does that have to do with it?" He felt annoyed to realize he couldn't go around seducing people left and right with his magnificent vampiric charms.

The boy hesitated, seeming to think for a moment. "When you drink from a living thing, you aren't just taking the blood from it, you're also taking a part of who they are, how they think – I guess you could call it part of their soul. It's not really 'taking' though, so much as 'copying.' Think of it this way – because we can't experience normal human life, we have to sort of feed off the memories of normal humans. It's a different kind of 'sustanence' that helps our minds to grow. Otherwise, I'd think we'd go mad with boredom. Now, the more complex the being is, the more complex that other part that you drink is going to be. You have to build your immunity or strength against the more complex ones, because if you don't, you'll just glut yourself until you go mad. You won't know who you are and you'll be left with nothing but hunger."

"Okay," Draco agreed slowly. "Immunity."

"Glad you're finally listening," Potter said. He hesitated. "I'm going to tell you this, but only as a warning and because you'll probably find out anyway. To kill something, especially a human being, you have to be willing, just as if you were going to do the act with any other method, to be killed yourself. It requires an equal sacrifice to take a person's life, and that is for you to decide you'd be willing to die in that moment where your victim is just on the precipice between life and death, which, you'll see, is a hard decision to make when drinking."

"If you say so." He shrugged.

He shook his head and switched subjects. "Bellatrix seemed to know you."

"Well, she did try to kill me, apparently," Draco snorted. He received a look. "Okay. She's my great-great-aunt who's supposed to have died. A long time ago."

Potter frowned. "How long?"

"I don't know. When my grandfather was still little."

The boy was silent and looked pensive. "Your grandfather was Draco Malfoy the first."

He noticed the lack of a questioning tone. "Right."

Potter sighed and looked at the ceiling. "You know, I went to school with him. When I was alive."

Draco stared but couldn't read his expression. "Exactly how long have you been alive – existed or whatever?"

"I was made into a vampire when I was fifteen," he said tonelessly. "I've been this way for almost forty years now."

He did some mental math. "Sounds about right." He watched Potter continue to gaze at the ceiling as if some great secret to eternal happiness lay in the dusty, cracked tiles. "You aren't going to go on about how much I'm like him now, are you?"

"Actually," the boy said, his eyes snapping back to reality, "if I didn't know better, I would say you _were_ him."

And it made him uneasy – the strange look in those terribly green eyes.

-

"Well, o great master," Draco said sarcastically, "where to now?"

The diner door closed behind them with a little puff of air and a muffled tinkle of the bells tied above it. Potter stretched and looked up at the sky where the sun still blazed but the air below had begun to cool. There were still trees yet that hadn't lost their summer greenery, but they looked awkward beside other ones that were already decked out in autumnal finery, as if they were committing a terrible faux pas.

"Well, we can't go back to my apartment..." Potter mused. "Are you sure you don't want to contact any friends or family? We could go see them now."

"Un-unh," Draco shook his head. He could just imagine Nott's snide voice demanding to know who he'd hooked up with. And he'd already decided he was going to put his family out of his mind.

The boy sighed. "Well, I guess we could crash tonight with friends..."

"Didn't you hear me?" he asked. "I said I didn't want to see my friends."

Potter shot him an annoyed look. "And once again, I'll remind you that the world doesn't revolve around you. I meant _my_ friends." He began walking across the square to a side road.

"They aren't..." Draco screwed up his face as he followed. "They aren't hobos or anything, are they?"

Smiling slyly, Potter answered, "They're musicians. Does that count?" He stuck his hands in his pockets.

"As in, big concert halls and private opera boxes?" he asked hopefully.

"Mmm," he murmured, waiting to cross a street. "They used to be like that. Now they're mostly crappy bars, sweaty hordes of fans, and too many songs about hangovers."

"_Great_," muttered Draco.

He noticed suddenly that Potter didn't have a jacket – just jeans, long thin t-shirt, and battered shoes. Not that it was below freezing, or anything, but you could still feel a little bite in the wind, especially now that they were out of the protective circle of the open square.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked.

Potter looked at him, startled. "Not really."

"So do vampires gradually become immune to stuff like that?" queried Draco excitedly. "Cold and heat? I'll be able to walk out into a blizzard butt-naked?"

Potter burst into laughter where they stood at an intersection. "Of course not, idiot. I mean, if you really wanted to walk naked into a blizzard, you can, but I'm betting you'd loose some important appendages." He continued to laugh without restraint.

Draco tried to ignore him haughtily and crossed when the road was clear, not bothering to point out this fact to Potter. But he was followed anyway.

The boy chuckled, "I've just always been like that. I don't pay much attention to the weather or any other obvious events going on around me."

"Good way to get yourself killed," drawled Draco.

His smile dimmed a little. "Yeah, probably..."

He followed Potter in silence for a while, being led away from the suburbs guaranteeing 2.5 kids lurking within each white-picket fence house. They weaved in and out side roads and little alleys until they'd come to the part of town filled with seedy apartment buildings, bad 24/7 drugstores, huge industrial buildings that vomited thick columns of black smoke, and wimpy bushes that were yellow with age and bitterness. Potter led him to a brick apartment building that reminded him of a woman who'd had too many children at too young an age. They stepped quickly up a metal staircase, red and orange from too much rain and frost, and Draco thought to himself, glimpsing Potter's ass above him, that maybe it wouldn't have been all that terrible to have Nott teasing him about hooking up.

Potter stopped in front of one the doors lined up like bedraggled ducklings, and knocked firmly. Draco sighed, inspecting the very shabby appearance of the place and setting. Time to resign himself another night of no luxury. Whining, the door opened. A guy around Draco's age peered out at them and cracked a smile when he saw Potter.

"Harry!" he exclaimed, swinging the door wider. "It's been a while." He wasn't much taller than Potter and had pitch black hair, too, but while Potter's was untidy to an extreme, his was sleek and fell to just at chin-length. He had dark eyes and a pale complexion. He looked a little androgynous.

"Good to see you too," Potter smiled. "Can we crash here for a while?"

"'Course," he said as he looked at Draco with inquisitive eyes. "Come on in."

"Thanks," said Potter, following the other brunette inside.

Draco suppressed more sighs and entered too, closing the door after himself. They stood in an utterly messy living-room where bits of clothes were flung everywhere, sheets of paper littered the floor and dominated the tiny side tables, the coffee table was riddled with water stains as if it were a target at a shooting range, and the two couches were so battered and experienced that they looked like they needed a good many sessions of therapy.

"It's just me and Alan right now," said the other boy. "The others went out for food."

"So I can call you by your real names?" Potter snorted.

He rolled his eyes. "For now. But he'll make you use the other ones when they get back."

Potter shook his head, then caught sight of Draco waiting patiently. "Oh, right. Aiden, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is Aiden."

"Glad to meet you," Aiden said, holding out a hand.

Remembering the last time someone had offered him a handshake, Draco pinked a little but took it anyway. "Likewise."

They could hear the sound of something being strummed in another room. That door opened, and what he thought at first was an Aiden-clone wandered out, holding a guitar absently and muttering to himself.

"Aiideen," he complained, staring down at the movement of his own fingers, "I can't find my pick."

"_I_ don't know where it is," answered Aiden. "Look up, would you? Harry's here."

He looked up and blinked. "Oh, hi. Hey! Harry made a fledgling. Great. Help me find my pick." He wandered toward the kitchen filled with amber light from a naked bulb.

Aiden sighed. "That would be Alan, my twin." He followed after his brother. "Where did you leave it last?"

"Heck if I know –"

Draco felt disconcerted from their simple casualty. "So they're..."

"Yes," said Potter, "they're vampires. A few decades older than me. But the rest of their band doesn't know, so don't let on."

"How did he know right off that I was, though?"

He shrugged. "It's a skill you pick up after a few years. You'll just be able to tell when someone's a vampire. Like somebody simply dropped the info into your head. I can do that, but I still can't tell who's the fledgling of whom, like Alan just demonstrated."

"Found it!" Alan exclaimed happily, waving around a little plastic triangle.

Tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth, he flopped on the couch and began to rapidly strum out notes and chords at random, still managing to make it sound good. Aiden plopped down beside him. Potter sat down on the second couch, pulling his legs into an indian fold, and Draco followed quietly.

Aiden looked at Potter. "Did something happen?"

"Well," he said carefully, "Bellatrix is getting on our cases. She's probably torn my apartment to pieces by now."

"Hate that bitch," Alan mumbled. "'Pieces.' That's a good song by somebody, can't remember who... ¹"

Aiden frowned. "Is Tom mad at you or something?"

Potter tensed and his eyes weren't looking at them anymore. "Not that I know of. I don't think she's doing it for him."

"Start at the beginning," offered Aiden.

And Potter explained about how he'd found Draco and all that followed. The blonde merely sat there on that tatty couch, listening quietly.

"It does sound like she's on her own this time," agreed Aiden. "If she's related to you, then it's probably just something personal she has against your family."

"Naw, I bet she's just gone completely loony," Alan said.

Draco shrugged. "I haven't a clue about any of it."

"You two wouldn't know something would you?" asked Potter. "You've been around longer."

Aiden shook his head. "If she 'died' a few years before you were made, then no. We weren't in this town at that time, remember?"

Potter sighed. "Yeah."

"Oh, hey," Alan said suddenly, "we're going to leave in a couple days 'cause there's this guy who owns a great club out west and says we can have a regular gig there."

"Oh. Right," Aiden said. "Sorry. I guess you can't stay here for too long."

Potter nodded. "That's okay. I was planning on looking for a new place tomorrow anyway."

They could hear voices and a rattling outside when the door swung open noisily. A trio of rather scruffy guys walked in, decked head to toe in frayed jeans, red and purple dreads, busted-up converse, bunches of hair highlighted in gold, mardi gras beads, and a care bear t-shirt or two. They greeted Potter delightedly and Alan leapt up to introduce Draco to the bassist, drummer, and second guitar/kazoo/accordion. He didn't bother to really remember their names, though. It turned out that the other band members knew Alan as 'Adonis' and Aiden as 'En' or 'Endymion.' Ancient Greek mythology references – witty.

The three new additions to their little party dropped a stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table without much ceremony and all converged on it like hyenas. Personally, Draco was trying to stay as far away from the smell as possible. Although, even Potter nibbled at a small slice but had to endure teasings over an apparent long-running joke about anorexia.

Then they brought out the beer (Potter telling him in an undertone, yes, he could still drink, but it wasn't a good idea for him at the moment). And the conversation turned steadily from loudly amusing and joshing around to just plain stupid and juvenile. Although, he guessed, it wasn't so horrible be around friendly people his own age who weren't always disgustingly obvious in trying to suck up to him. Even Zabini and Nott had moments when they would regret teasing him and try to make things up just so they could stay on the good side of the Malfoy heir. There was always a barrier there when people he met found out who he was. It made him realize that he had never had anyone fully treat him like an actual person in his usual life. Well, except for Crane.

As the hours swept by, everyone except Draco, Potter, and Aiden had fallen asleep where they stood or sat in the living-room. Aiden gave up trying to rouse his brother and got to his feet, stretching.

"You guys can take that bedroom," he yawned and pointed to the furthest door. He waved a silent good night and disappeared into the closest door.

Potter entered the indicated room without a word. Draco followed and watched as he flopped on a bed with sheets more tossed about than a salad. Tired himself, he fell onto the other bed, not really minding the lack of a blanket or the smell of someone else's cologne. The room was dark.

"Hey, Potter," he mumbled.

"What?" sighed a voice.

"Who's this Tom person?"

He didn't say anything for a long moment. "My maker."

Draco had a lot more questions, but his mind didn't seem to want to remember them at the moment. "Hey, Potter..." No answer. "Potter?"

He'd fallen asleep.

* * *

¹ - L'ARCENCIEL, BABY! Ho, yeahz. 

-

**A/N**: Alan and Aiden are cool biznatches. They're old characters I've had who were convenient to use in this fic. I like their background story, but don't know if I'll include it, 'cause it doesn't really have anything to do with the plot...

Also the next few chapters will be very involved with some OCs (not just A&A) of mine(still from Draco's POV, but you know...); hopefully you won't get too annoyed because there's some things I need them for characterization-wise. I'll be able to get back to just the good-ol' canon characters after maybe chp. 6, although I believe A&A will appear again later on...


	4. Fourth Moon

**Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace**

by Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Fourth Moon – Chapter Four**

* * *

**Day 3**

Draco awoke feeling muddled and groggy. Through bleary morning vision, he inspected the unfamiliar room with two beds, a double and a single, and cardboard boxes crammed with stuff scattered around. Clothes and wires and strange equipment were jumbled in piles and general layers on the floor. He was alone. Getting up, he grimaced down at the sight of his rumpled, borrowed, and very out of date clothes. He supposed he could sneak into Nott's to get all of his stuff back. Hearing voices in the main room, he pattered out into the sun-lit kitchen.

Potter and the twin he assumed was Aiden sat at an old plastic and metal breakfast table, talking quietly. The other twin sat with them but with his head buried in his arms and apparently trying to provoke sympathy with a pained moan every now and then. He was ignored.

"Morning," greeted Potter.

"Morning," he said warily. He sat down, mentally comparing how under normal circumstances he would have breakfast. Either alone in his room, or with the whole happy family at the dining table long enough for forty people. His father would bury his face into the morning paper or some papers from work, his mother chatting away on her cell, and Crane and himself were forced to be quiet and eat with perfect tables manners even though their parents were being blatant hypocrites at the moment. Instead, he was sitting with three other vampires at a crappy table with Dostoevsky and cheap romance novels stuck under the legs to balance it. Oh, and they were eating air for breakfast. But at least it wasn't considered an unforgivable sin to put his elbows on the table.

"I'm planning on finding another apartment today," Potter was saying to him. "But you don't have to come, you know. You sure there's not anyone you want to see?"

There was just Crane, really, but she was probably better off not knowing his newest little secret. She thought the worst thing he'd done so far was to sneak a bottle of bourbon out of his father's collection, and Draco would like very much to keep it that way. She was a good kid and part of the reason of why he'd run away from home in the first place. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he messed up her future because of his own stupidity. "No one."

Potter studied him for a while. "I don't mean to pry, but you know when I told my parents about what had happened to me, they were very understanding. Sometimes you don't really know how much people care about you until something big like, well... _this_ comes along."

Draco shook his head. "My parents don't give a damn about me. Which is fine, 'cause the feeling's mutual. It's pretty much the same with my 'friends.' And, well, my sister's okay. It's just that I've decided I'm going to leave her alone from now on."

For some reason Potter looked sad, which left him feeling uncomfortable. Aiden stood quietly and went to one of the fluorescent yellow-green cabinets and pulled out a glass. He turned the sink on, but then went still, holding the glass inches away from the flowing water and staring out the wide window. Instantly, Alan's head popped up.

"Aiden?" he asked.

His brother didn't say anything and continued to gaze down at something outside. Clambering to his feet, Alan went to stand beside him. Apparently seeing what Aiden was staring at, he growled and shoved open the window which swung open with a tired groan. He stuck his head out.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here!?" Alan yelled furiously.

Potter and Draco stood and looked over their shoulders. Bellatrix and a man were loitering in the alley beneath the window, gazing up at them with identical blank expressions. Draco thought he recognized the man as Rudolf Lestrange, the man who Bellatrix had married. Despite himself, he felt a little sliver of apprehension at the sight of the two, their stances akin to a pair of large sleek cats stalking across a dry savanna.

"Get the fuck out of here before I come down to tear you apart!" Alan snarled loudly.

The two below seemed to confer for a moment. With one last glance up at them, the Lestranges silently slid out of the alley and out of sight. Huffing angrily, Alan snapped the window closed. Aiden wordlessly put a hand on his arm and they shared a look of intrinsic communication.

Shaking his head but seeming calmer, Alan said, "You just have to be firm with them. They only wanted to spook us. Didn't actually want to want to take on all four of us."

Draco was a little surprised to hear himself included in that 'us.'

Potter looked upset. "Christ, I'm sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn't have bothered you guys."

"Don't be stupid," admonished Alan. "We like you Harry. Of course we'd kick ass for you. We've done a whole lot more for a whole lot less." Aiden nodded.

"Still," he persisted, "I think we should go now." His eyes made a silent plead with Draco not to be rude or difficult.

"Well, okay," said Alan, shrugging.

Aiden grabbed a pencil and pad of paper, jotting down a number. He handed it to Potter.

Not even looking at it, Alan said, "That's the number you can call us at after a week or so, when we get to our new home. We'll still be here for a couple of days, though, if things really get messy."

He folded it and stuck it in his jeans. "Thanks. Hope to see you guys soon." Potter grabbed Draco and they tip-toed past the still sleeping other members of the band. Stepping out into the bright world outside, they answered the twins' good-byes. He glanced back at them, still a little amazed at their exact symmetry.

Silently, Draco followed Potter down the metal stairs and out into the web-work of streets, all the while feeling uncomfortable from not having a shower, sleeping in these horrible clothes, the smell of car exhaust and chemical fumes from the factories, and his stomach roiling unpleasantly. God, he thought, if this was what morning sickness was like, he would _never_ make fun of a pregnant lady, even though he hadn't been planning on it in the first place. Potter somehow led them away from the acrid odors of industry into the cool quiet of a park deserted but for a few power-walkers and joggers.

They sat under a cluster of maples just beginning to tire of their green gowns. One good frost and they would become majestic ladies shivering with delicate delight in new red attires. The morning sun speckled through the tree branches, making the cobbled path shimmer in little patches, but it did nothing to alleviate the smarting sting of the chilly air. The grass was yellow.

Potter was frowning up at the sky.

"I thought you wanted to get a new apartment," Draco prompted, wanting to move so as to encourage warmth into his limbs.

"I'm thinking."

"It certainly is taking a while."

He gave him an irritated look. "I'm worried that if I find another place, they'll just come and wreck it too. Or worse."

Draco frowned. He was started to hate how their lives were starting to look like a couple of vagabonds on the run. "Can't we go to your parents' or something?"

Potter glanced at him. "You really are sticking with me?"

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Draco answered. "And with this maniac after me, I'd much prefer if _you_ would fight her and do all the dirty work." He inspected his hands. "Just got a manicure the other day, after all."

Potter snorted and looked back up at the swaying leaves. "No, it'd be even worse if we went to my parents'. If they came there, I wouldn't be able to watch _all_ the people who live there at all times. And I don't want to put them in danger."

Draco nodded. He could understand that. "How big is your family anyway?"

"Pretty large," murmured Potter. "There's my parents, and then my three siblings, their children, and even their children's children. Plus, if you wanted to count Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus and their families... The reunions get a little overwhelming."

"Didn't you say you were going to go see a baby or something?"

"In about a week," he said, "they'll have everyone over for a late baby shower. She had it way before the due date..." He sighed. "It's worrisome, though. My sixteen-year-old niece got herself knocked up and the father won't have anything to do with her now. Oh, well. The whole family will be probably much _too_ helpful, really..."

"That's a little strange, Potter," Draco said. "You're technically only fifteen and have a niece who's older than you."

Potter grinned wickedly. "Just wait until you see me with Mom and Dad. They're over seventy now."

He winced, trying not to do the math. He noticed that even though Potter was grinning over the topic, there was a certain disconnection around his eyes, a discrepancy with the rest of his expression.

"What do they treat you like?" He was thinking about Crane and what it would be like to see her with wrinkles and grandchildren.

He shrugged. "Like a little brother or just some strange cousin. Even though I'm really the oldest in the family next to my parents. I try not to be around too much. Mom and Liza, the oldest of my siblings, sometimes come around to my apartment."

They sat quietly for a while, just thinking. Draco felt a strange and very large uneasiness towards the future. It's not that he wasn't used to being alone; that was how he'd grown up for the most part. But it was one thing not to have a best friend in first grade and quite another not to be able to experience the things most people did, to be cut off from the rest of humanity. Nearly unbearable.

"Your maker," Draco said abruptly, to turn his mind outward, "what's he got to do with Bellatrix?"

Potter scowled. "She's also his fledgling. Her husband too. I assume you recognized him this morning."

He nodded. He'd been forced to look through the family albums quite enough times by his mother. "If that's so," he said, "why don't you just go ask him to make her stop bothering us?"

There was that tensing again from last night. "It's complicated. I'd rather not see him unless it were really desperate."

'Really desperate'? Didn't having to sit on a park bench in the frigid breeze looking like a couple of homeless people without anywhere to go count as 'desperate'? Piqued and irritable from his state of disarray and his stomach troubles, Draco decided to poke a little further at what he sensed was a touchy subject. "This Tom, does he have a last name?"

"Riddle," Potter muttered. "Tom Riddle."

"And what's Tom Riddle like?"

He flashed him a look. "A bastard."

"Why'd he make you into a vampire?"

"How should I know!" Potter said loudly, exasperated. He glared moodily at Draco.

He decided not to push his luck. "Okay. You said you went to school with my grandfather. What was that like?"

Potter glared at the world in general, irritated. "A pain in the ass. That's what the first Draco Malfoy was like. And so are you. I swear to God, if I hadn't gone to his funeral myself, I'd swear he was sitting right beside me at this moment."

"You went to his funeral?" Draco asked, a little surprised.

Potter glanced at him. "Well, I wasn't invited. So I had to sneak in. But yes, I did." He turned away. "It was sad. I hadn't seen him since I'd died, and my memories..." He trailed off and was silent.

Draco suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if he were breaking a holy law or peeking in on something he had no right to. "You know, he died a few hours before I was born."

Potter looked up, his expression strange. "No, I didn't know that."

They didn't say anything for a long time and merely watched as runners, liquid salt streaming down their pumping legs and arching backs, glided past them. Mothers aged at late twenty or early thirty something reeled over the cobbles, the source of their frenzy to slip out of a few pounds of fat sleepily lying in the swaying strollers under their white-knuckled hands. A wrinkly, unhurried couple or two doddered on by, their hands, the skin rolling off the bones, entwined together. They received funny looks from everyone. Draco looked down at himself and picked at the awful shirt.

He gave Potter a sideways look. "Hey, could we go get some of my stuff? I was staying with a friend before, see, but he won't be home now."

His expression hurt, the boy said, "What? You don't like the clothes of the cat lady's son who _died_ in a _war_ defending _your_ freedom?"

For a minute, Draco was left feeling rather embarrassed before he saw the light smile playing around Potter's mouth. He leapt up, yelling, "Fucking hell!" He stomped away, ignoring the burst of laughter behind him. It was several minutes before Potter caught up with him, trying to jog while bowled over and holding a laughter stitch in his side.

"I'm going to get some actually _decent_ clothes," Draco said stiffly.

"Lead the way," Potter gasped, grinning.

Draco marched out of the park into suburbia-land, with the whole 2.5 kids thing going on. For the most part, he ignored Potter but had to resort to asking how to get to one street from another because of the fact that he was more accustomed to navigating from the safety behind a wheel and a windshield. And so it was a little more surprising how long it took to find the very pristine apartment building where Nott lived. It swooped high into the blue sky, geometric to a fault.

"Impressive," Potter quipped.

Juvenile-y, Draco stuck his tongue out at him. The boy grinned. Draco strode as quickly as he could across the lobby, hoping very much that no one would recognize him, but was furious to see Potter taking as much time as he could. He kept having to push the open button on the elevator and hissing at him to hurry up. The boy was in stitches again by the time Draco could close the elevator with a relieved sigh. The elevator purred upwards, Potter humming annoyingly along with the complimentary music, and dinged as they reached the right floor. Draco practically raced down the hall, this time leaving no chances as he had grabbed Potter's hand and dragged him along. Stopping in front of a door, he bent down to scrape a hand against the lacquered wood floor under a rather cheesy welcome mat.

"I can't believe that's actually where he hides his spare key," snorted Potter.

"Me neither," Draco agreed for once.

Nott's apartment, although just as messy as the last two he'd slept in, was at least _large._ With a _large_ living room, a large kitchen, a large couch, a large TV, a large veranda, and even a large taxidermy bear greeting you on the way in. Maybe the last one was a bit excessive, but Draco felt no compulsion to criticize after finding all of his own clothes, that actually fit him and looked and felt good. He gleefully informed Potter that he would be taking a shower and left him to his own devices.

Coming out of the marble slathered bathroom, he found the black-haired boy sitting in front of the TV and quizzically fiddling with the five remotes laid on the glass coffee table. He glanced up.

"You look happier."

Draco patted down his already smooth hair. "I certainly am."

"I thought you might be hungry," commented Potter, "so I made you an egg-white omelet. It's over on the bar."

He realized he was indeed voracious. He cautiously approached the white plate lying innocently on the bar, a rather fluffy-looking omelet wafting a not entirely disagreeable smell toward him. Draco found that if he didn't rush and took it in carefully, he wasn't tempted to spew it all out again. As he swallowed the last bite, he glanced to where Potter had finally managed to turn the TV on but couldn't figure out how to dispel the Japanese voices it emitted.

"Thanks for the omelet," he said.

"Uh-huh," muttered Potter distractedly.

Draco leaned against the back of the couch and watched as a soap star sobbed in Thai. "You probably want a shower, too."

"Saying that I stink?" Potter asked emotionlessly, concentrated on the tiny plastic buttons of a remote.

"No, I just –"

"Oh, hey," he finally looked up at him with his neck resting on the couch's back. "Why aren't you in school? You're seventeen, right? And that's why your friend isn't home."

Draco scowled. "I skipped a grade. Graduated early last winter. I was supposed to go to college this fall, but I got into a huge blow-up with my father and ran away from home."

"But your parents still knew where you were, right?"

"Well," he glowered, "yes."

Potter looked back down at the remotes laying askew in his lap. He slid out from under them, letting the plastic things clatter loudly to the floor. "I think I _will_ take that shower."

As he wandered towards the bathroom, Draco sighed and flopped into his vacated seat. He flipped off whatever South Asian language Martin Luther King, Jr. was giving his 'I have a dream' speech to channel surf without really seeing what he was doing.

That was another thing he hadn't thought about. He did generally well enough in school, though his teachers and parents were constantly admonishing him for not 'applying himself.' What the hell did that mean, anyway? He just didn't do things if he didn't feel like it. He couldn't tell himself that his education was the most important thing when he didn't believe a word of that. And what did he need a degree now for? If he graduated from college, that would mean getting a steady job, and getting a steady job would mean suspicious whispers when he turned thirty or forty or fifty and he still didn't look a day over seventeen. After all, he could pass for twenty-one in a bar's terrible lighting, but there would be no hiding in a business meeting or at a formal family reunion.

"_Hello? _Draco?"

He started, realizing Potter had finished in under five minutes. Draco looked up and saw him balancing his folded clothes with one hand and holding on to a towel swathed around his waist with the other, frowning down at him. He swallowed, getting an eyeful of the sharp, yet fine lines the bones of his shoulders, collar, chest, and pelvis made against the skin lightly reddened from the steam of the shower.

"I don't think any of your clothes are going to fit me, so can I just wash mine?"

"Yeah," he said, standing quickly. "Sure." Limbs stiff, he walked to the entrance hall and pulled open two folding doors set into the wall, revealing a closet just large enough for a dual washer/dryer. He adjusted the setting for him and made an awkward gesture to the machine's hatch. Potter dumped his small bundle in brusquely and wandered back to the TV to muddle around once more with the remotes. Draco sat in the kitchen, toying with an apple and watching the tiny movements of Potter's bony shoulders. He mentally groaned when he realized he'd been taking several other such peeks, though never as satisfying as these, over the past two days.

Annoying brat! Annoying brat! His mind shrieked at himself as he scurried toward the washer/dryer when it rang out its pleasure in successfully completing its task. Draco tossed the bundle toward Potter.

He caught it, saying, "Thanks." As he walked out of the room again, Draco's eye followed the curve of neck to spine to towel –

He sat at the kitchen table, buried his head into his arms, and tried not to think too much. But he soon felt a jabbing finger poke his arm.

"It's getting late. I think we should head out now."

"Okay," Draco agreed, already feeling weary. "Where we off to now?"

"Umm," Potter said apprehensively. "I've talked to this little group of vampires a couple of times. They might let us stay a night or two. But I think we should grab a newspaper first to see if there's anything in the personals that wouldn't need much notice."

"Right," said Draco. "Just hold on." He disappeared into his bedroom and grabbed his wallet. He wouldn't use his credit cards unless an emergency came up, but there was a good deal of cash that would be handy. He also picked up a light leather bag that could hold a change of clothes or two and a couple of jackets. Reemerging, he tossed one of the jackets to Potter.

"Just looking at you like that is starting to make _me_ feel cold," Draco admonished.

Potter shook his head, but accepted it anyway.

Leaving a quick note to Nott with contents that he would expect (one-night stand turning into a several-nights stand), he followed Potter back out into the impatient, chilly autumn.

-

The buildings and plants and people cast stark shadows against each other now, as if all of their rushing about to return to the place they belonged was some mad game turned even madder war. There were miniature, fleeting clouds before their mouths now, sliding from between their teeth and tangling with their tongues. Potter stopped for a minute, inspecting a light pole with various advertisements and flyers stapled into its wooden flesh.

They'd gone and bought every local paper and sat down in a cafe to peruse. A few calls made, but no luck for the night. The shortest notice required was for tomorrow evening, so Draco had assumed they would go find those other vampires Potter had mentioned, but they had left the payphone by the cafe hours ago. He was getting extremely fed up with wandering all over town on his aching feet. Although it probably would have helped if he were wearing tennis shoes like Potter and not three-hundred dollar shoes of the finest, most horrible for long distances, Italian leather.

"Potter," he hissed.

"Shut-up," he muttered back. "And don't panic." He was keeping his voice low so that Draco had to lean forward to hear.

"What're you –"

"Be quiet," Potter warned. His tone shut him up. "We're being followed."

That all too familiar apprehension in his spine from the past two days returned. "Bellatrix?"

"And Rudolf." Potter tore an apartment advertisement from the pole and appeared to be reading it intently. "For the past two hours I've been trying to shake them. _Don't look around!_"

Draco's head swiveled back guiltily, in the process of doing just that.

Potter bit his lip. He seemed to make a decision. "I'm going to grab your hand and run. Count of three. One, two, _three_." And he jerked Draco across the road, cars blaring rudely and screeching to avoid them. He caught a flashing glimpse of dark hair and a white smile in an alleyway only a few feet from where they had stood. They dashed across to the other side of the street and weaved together through the throngs of people. Potter came to a careening stop in front of a lavish hotel, shoving Draco into a white cab that someone else was probably planning to take to the airport or the symphony. Potter tumbled in after him and barked an address at the driver. He gave them a strange look but, thankfully, pulled out into traffic without a word.

Potter uprighted himself and they sat watching the other cars and catching their breaths. Draco felt a bit of surprise at the address they were quickly approaching. It was in a neighborhood he knew well from having to spend far too many stuffy dinner parties sitting next to pasty-faced, fat little girls with rich daddies. A 'nice neighborhood' as his mother would say. The rolled to a stop before a house with tall white columns, pretty green ivy at its corners, wide windows that hinted at sun-rooms and bright drawing parlors, and a not at all overdone garden still lush and a pleasure to the eye even in fall. At Potter's pointed look, Draco paid for the fare and they clambered out.

He hesitated, but followed quickly after Potter's confident steps up the pathway to the towering front door. Stars already glimmered in the dusk sky. They stopped before the door, and Draco watched him hesitating with his finger above the doorbell. He glanced up.

"These aren't the people I was originally planning for us to stay with, so you've got to promise me something," Potter said firmly with serious eyes.

Not liking the cold setting into his bones, Draco blurted, "Fine, sure. Whatever you want."

"Don't, not even for a moment, be alone in this house."

"What?" he asked, incredulous.

"_Don't leave my sight_," Potter stated intently. He was trying very hard to convey to him his sincerity with his eyes.

Draco nodded rapidly, rubbing his arms. "Alright. I promise."

He pressed the doorbell.

* * *

**A/N**: Don't listen to him, kiddos! School is cool! Don't be a fool! Pfft.

Oh yes. And my only proof of a futuristic setting. Dundundunnn, _the washer/dryer!_ (Although it's probably already been invented). Can you tell I'm not too concerned about playing up the whole _!in-the-future!_ thing?

(Btw – I've only been writing in Draco's POV since chapter 2, and will probably continue in the same manner for the majority of the story, with only a few parts in Harry's POV. Does anyone have an absolutely huge beef with this? Imput? plzkthx.)


	5. Fifth Moon

**Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace**

by Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Fifth Moon – Chapter Five**

-

The low and delighted doorbell resounded in a very large and airy way inside the house, which despite Potter's weirdness was starting to make Draco a little happier for the lack of cheap plastic siding or crumbling brick or scraggly yellow weeds,. They stood there together, Potter pensive and still while Draco was practically hopping on his heels, for a long moment.

It wasn't that he was a rich elitist to the extreme, or anything. He'd just spent the vast majority of his life with two housekeepers and in a private school where everyone knew the stock ratings of everyone's parents. He didn't really loathe having to spend the last two nights in crummy apartments; it's just that he was more comfortable in nearly seven-digit homes in the same way other people felt uncomfortable in those same environments. And well, yes – he _did_ whine a lot when denied what he was used to. So sue him.

The door fell inward on its hinges. A man, dark and young, looked out at them with impassive yet somehow warm ebony eyes. His full lips parted to reveal a polite and startlingly white smile.

"Harry, come in," he said with a crisp voice, stepping out of their way. "It's really cold."

His head a little low, Potter slipped through the doorway, Draco on his heels. "Thank you, Charles."

As expected, Draco's gaze thirstily drank in the clean, cherry-floored entrance hall with its high-ceiling and tall windows in the back wall, facing south. Simple modern rugs further warmed the dark red of the wood and a staircase leapt high and branched off into the opposing sides of the rooms. Wildly courteous paintings hung naked, without frames, and a vast bouquet of sweet narcissus and poppies drowsed in a curvaceous glass vase set on a round table in the center of the hall, a little pad of paper hiding beneath the flowers' trembling shadows. He could hear a harpsichord somewhere further inside.

"Sorry for bursting in like this," Potter apologized, his hands and cheeks red.

The polite smile still in place, Charles shook his head. "No trouble. You're always welcome." He had his thin, tan pullover pushed to his elbows. It contrasted with the deep hue of his skin. His gaze flicked to Draco.

"This is Draco Malfoy," explained Potter. "Draco, this is Charles Nevers."

"Good to meet you," said Charles and held out his hand.

Draco met his dusky palm with his own disgracefully pale one. "You too." The other's eyes were placidly inspecting him. Was he a vampire? Would it be rude to ask? If he was, how old was he? Could he see more than just his own vampirism and his relation to Potter?

Charles was taking their jackets and his bag. Slipping them onto hangers from a coat closet, he said, "I'm afraid it's just Léon and myself at the moment. Any special reason for visiting?"

"Well," hesitated Potter. "I was hoping we could stay the night. Something's come up with Bellatrix Lestrange."

The black gaze flickered toward him. "That will be fine." He approached another side door. "Won't you come sit?"

Potter nodded and Draco followed the two of them down a quietly lit hallway, leaving imprints into a plush, slender rug past a few doors until they reached the end. The harpsichord's trilling swelled in volume. He could recognize the piece now; it was Boccherrini's minuet. Charles slipped the door open silently and the chirp and warble of the minuet fluttered past them and all over their senses. Almost two-thirds of the room's walls were covered in demurely curving windows, their dove-gray drapes falling to lightly finger the same cherry floorboards from the entrance. Furnished in understated, classical settees, sofas, a dark and spindly chessboard, it was a room Draco would rather have listened to Satie in. But it wasn't really in him to complain when Boccherrini had never sounded so much like an actual ripple of the Enlightenment Era in his own century than it did now.

The culprit for this musical revel sat at a delicate harpsichord slipped in between two high bookcases. The door snapped shut. Boccherrini abruptly ended under the musician's hovering fingers and he turned to reveal a Botticelli face. A spring-esque smile developed from the boy's pliant lips; he looked younger than Potter and had a soft down of deep yellow for hair – a mess of feather curls.

He exclaimed unintelligibly, leaping up and flinging himself into an enthusiastic hug within Potter's arms. He beamed up at the brunette's smile and began to talk at breakneck speed in a somehow rather strange form of French.

"Whoa!" Potter said, holding up his hands to fend off the friendly fire. "Slow down. My French really hasn't improved since last time."

"English, Léon," Charles commented while pulling shut the drapes. It was getting darker.

A light pout touched his mouth. "I can't speak English well." Which was obvious from the pronounced accent. "What if I use French _sloow_?"

"Won't do any good," said Charles. "You still speak so antiquatedly. Please have a seat, Harry, Draco."

The boy, or Léon as Draco deduced, whirled at the sound of an unknown name. He gave Draco a wide-eyed, speculative look. Pointing, he announced loudly, "Young! You're so young!"

Which sounded ridiculous coming from someone who looked barely out of puberty. Draco felt a scowl coming over his face as Potter snorted.

"Don't be rude," Charles told him, pressing the accusing finger down. "Draco, this is Léon Nev–"

"De Neviers," interrupted the boy as he flounced into an armchair. "I don't like the American-ese one you use."

"American-ised," he corrected. "All right. This is Léon de Neviers, Draco. Léon, this is Draco Malfoy."

Draco tried to regain his dignity. "Plea–"

"You smell like human," Léon informed him.

"–sure." And failed.

Potter bent over, laughing.

Marble bathroom! Large bed to himself! Draco tried to keep thoughts like that in his head while ignoring the 'goddam brat's. Still laughing, Potter pulled him down to sit in one of the sofas.

Charles frowned at the boy, who shrugged.

"It's true."

"I take it you're vampires," said Draco dryly.

"That's right," sighed Charles, leaning on the chair where Léon slouched, his legs folded and stuck at gauche angles in the air.

They seemed to be on total polar opposites; the man was dark-skinned, faintly African and carefully tactful while the boy was thoughtless and blond, terribly European-looking. So how was it exactly that they both came by the same last name, however French 'de Neviers' sounded next to 'Nevers'?

"It's really just my name," Léon said, looking straight at him. "Charles was our servant, but we adopted him because we liked him so much." His still, blue eyes chilled him.

Draco stared, feeling his mouth flop like a fish. "You –"

"I think we could do with some tea," Potter interrupted abruptly.

Charles straightened with dark eyes. "I think that's a fine idea."

"Oh!" Léon scrambled to his knees on the armchair. "_Cake_. We need to have _cake_."

"You just had some after dinner," said Charles.

The boy looked at him with pleading eyes.

"Oh, fine."

"And Italian ice! We still have some!"

The young man sighed. "If you're going to order a five-course meal, _you_ can go tell Penny what you want."

"Okay," the boy chirped, entirely game. He sprang out the door without a second thought or backward glance.

Silence enveloped them for a long moment. Draco darted a suspicious glance at Potter, who said nothing. Charles sat down.

"Penny is our housekeeper and cook," he told him.

"Well, that's –" Draco began sarcastically but Potter gave his ankle a good clip with his shoe.

Charles hesitated. "About Léon – I'm sorry if he startled you. He does that to people sometimes... He's very strange. Even for a vampire."

"He reads minds?" Draco demanded.

The black eyes were careful. "Perhaps. We don't know exactly _what_ it is. Sometimes he'll do that – start talking about something you were thinking about. Other times he'll mention something out of the blue that you swear you've never told anyone about, and weren't even thinking on at the time. Or he'll insist that he could remember a specific event he couldn't possibly be part of, describing it in full, and you'll watch it happening later in the future or discover it really did happen the way he said in the past." He looked troubled. "And he'll never talk about this... _ability_ coherently. He gets upset if you keep on about it."

"It's not something that's usual," Potter told him. "So don't get your hopes up, thinking after a couple of years you'll be able to see what's to happen in the stock market before it happens."

Draco glowered, beginning to think just that. A door opened and shut noisily towards the front of the house.

"Excuse me," Charles said, standing. "That must be Claude." He left on soft feet.

Silence snowed down between them. Draco gave Potter a suspicious look. "I don't know about you, but a little blond twat reading my every thought is a little creepy. How'm I supposed to get to sleep tonight?"

He rolled his eyes. "'Blond twat'? Look who's talking. You'll manage, I'm sure." Potter frowned. "And he's a good kid."

"Right," Draco replied in highly false concurrence. "There's nothing else fishy I should know about, is there?"

Potter hesitated. _Not_ a good sign in Draco's opinion. "Just do what I said and don't go wandering around alone."

The blonde scowled. The swept open again and Charles reentered with another man. The newcomer smiled at them with thick-lidded eyes, languor leaking from his every movement. He swept dark hair away from his olive-skinned brow and said, "_Harry_, it's about time you made a fledgling! And he looks like he actually has a decade or two before him."

"I suspect that's supposed to be a compliment," Charles commented.

Harry grinned and reached up to shake the man's hand, Draco following suit. He sat, smoothed his crisp shirt perfunctorily, and inspected them with cool, hospitable eyes. "You are Draco Malfoy? I'm Claude. I was Claude in France, Claudius in Rome, and a great many other things in a great many other places." He smiled again.

"A pleasure," Draco returned calmly. The man unsettled him for no reason he could divine.

"I hear you've been having a spot of trouble, Harry," Claude said in a fatherly tone as he accepted a shot of bourbon from Charles. The dark man laid a ringing silver serving tray on the coffee table, laden with crystal glasses and a bottle of dark butterscotch liquid. Potter declined silently. Draco didn't even want to think about what the stuff would do to his stomach.

"You could put it that way," answered Potter.

Claude sighed. "Tom's up to his nasty habits again, is he? Well, let's hear it."

"Actually," the brunette began and recounted to them the story. Just hearing all the crap he'd had to endure for that past three days was making him want to kick something around. Preferably Bellatrix's head.

As Potter finished with describing how he'd just managed to dodge the Lestranges after being followed for two hours, Claude mused for a minute. He started to say something, but the door burst open and Léon swung in, a large tray of confectionery goodies sliding with his momentum. He practically threw the massive thing down on the coffee table, barely missing the bourbon. A woman followed after him, her hands carefully balanced under her tray. Léon flopped down on the sofa beside Charles, grinning at Claude.

"_Salut!_"

The man smiled, his look suddenly changing. "Tut-tut. English, remember? You never put any effort into your languages." His gaze suddenly seemed unable to recognize anything but Léon.

A pout fleetingly dropped into his lips before he was distracted by the woman placing a tea set gingerly beside the sweets. "Honey and sugar cubes?" He asked her, leaning forward quickly to poke about the molded silverware.

"Of course," she replied with a warm, tired look.

"You really drink your tea with honey _and_ sugar?" Potter asked, dismayed.

"It's a wonder his teeth haven't all fallen out years ago," Charles commented, his white teeth flashing up in swift smile. His mahogany hands were carefully moving as directed by Lon's slender index finger, scooping delicate pastries and sugary things onto a polished little dessert plate. Potter and Draco both chose to opt out of any dismally sweet things, as did Claude and Charles, so that it ended up with only Léon licking bits of icing from the corners of his mouth. The woman, Penny, Draco assumed, dusted off her pristine apron and smiled at them.

"Anything else I can get you all?"

"Can you make up the beds in the olive and burgundy rooms?" Charles asked her over the steam of his tea.

She nodded. "Of course. I'll be heading out after that, if that's okay."

"Certainly," nodded Charles. "I'm sorry we've kept you so late today."

She smiled, looking mildly pretty for a rounded middle-aged woman. "No trouble, no trouble. I'll see you tomorrow." She reached for the door.

"Wait, Penny!" Léon suddenly called through an éclair. His thick accent thickened even more until he swallowed. "I wanted to ask a question."

She paused with her back to the door. "Yes?"

The boy wiped a bit of chocolate from his mouth. "What do you need that gun under your apron for?" His eyes focused unwaveringly on her suddenly still form. He was wiping his fingers with a starched white napkin.

A long quiet flooded the room. The woman stood there, frigid, staring at that emotionless angelic face, her warmth gone and no surprise or anger hurrying to replace it. Léon stared at her with a similar expression, Charles beside him slowly overcome with shock. Potter had stiffened with his eyes on Claude, who was sitting calmly, drinking the tea he'd splashed some bourbon into. Draco's eyes raced from person to person, wandering when someone would _do_ something. What the _hell_ was going on? They abruptly all heard distant barking.

Two chimes accompanied Claude's calm movement as he placed his cup on its saucer, and the saucer on one of the serving trays. He spoke as if nothing had happened, "There the dogs go again. Léon," he leaned toward the boy, smiling, "why don't you and Charles go take them for a walk to settle them down?"

The boy's inert expression morphed instantly into his wide smile. He jumped to his feet and dragged Charles to his. "Let's! I want to _see_ them!" The dark man followed the boy, his now slightly nervous expression not lifting as they steered around the woman as if she were merely a mannequin. He gave her a last look before calling down the hallway after Léon to get their coats. The door closed and several minutes stretched on until you could no longer hear the boy's careless traipsing in the house. Claude stood, his look completely and utterly drawn cool and slack. Before she could say a thing, the tall man had her arms pinned and her feet scrambling for purchase. She cried out, anger finally peeking through.

"If you will, Harry," Claude nodded downward without a drop of sweat.

Potter jerked upward and hurried forward, lifting the apron and finding it. He placed the ugly thing delicately on a nearby roll top desk. Draco hovered, unsure. It really was getting to be too much. Couldn't they have at least a few hours peace?

"Well, Penny," growled Claude, shoving her to her knees and tightening his vise on her hands, "that's certainly a pretty bauble. Tell me why you decided to bring it along today. Or maybe it wasn't just today, hmm?"

"Let go of me, beast!" she snarled as she jerked her limbs desperately.

"Beasts, are we?" he chuckled humorlessly. "You didn't seem to mind so much when the paychecks were rolling in, though, huh?" He pushed her into the back of a sofa, trapping her torso and limiting her movement. He pressed his knee sharply into her back, causing her to draw her breath quickly. "Although I'm sure we weren't your only source of income."

"You... You...!"

"Let's hear it already, then," Claude muttered. "Who are you working for? Tom?"

"_Let go! Let go!_" she shrieked.

He clucked. "Definitely not going to happen until you answer my question."

She said nothing but continued to flail hopelessly against him. It's not like Draco'd never seen someone roughed up, or anything, but the situation felt surreal in such a pristine, rich setting. He felt himself longing for crusty bars with nasty drunks being chucked out by the dozen. His eye strayed to the gun again where it gleamed dully. His back to Draco, Potter's eyes were fixated on the woman as she bucked and grunted. Claude made an impatient sound and twisted her arms even more cruelly. She yelped sharply. The man bent down to her ear level and seemed to speak softly. Potter subconsciously stepped toward them.

"_Yes!_" the woman screeched. "Alright? _Yes_, I'm working for Mister Riddle."

"Well, _Mister_ Riddle, is it?" murmured Claude. "_Beasts_ don't deserve titles, lady." He straightened his stance slightly while keeping her incapacitated. "Now. Explain the gun. What purpose exactly was Riddle aiming for by placing a spy in my home?"

Whatever he had said before seemed to have lost its impact as she again twisted in a frantic attempt to slip out of his hold. Draco was amazed at one, her stamina for a lady old enough to be his mother, and two, her stupidity. Didn't she realize, even if she got away, there weren't that many escape options? Unless she planned on smashing through the sun windows, which he honestly would not have been that surprised by at this point. In any case, the woman refused to say anything outside of her snarls to be let free.

"You _do_ realize," Claude finally said, "that your fate will not be any different at Mister Riddle's hands?"

'Her fate'? What? Those words sounded grossly ominous to Draco. Potter edged nearer again. The gun still lay lifeless on the desk.

The fight fell from the woman's limbs. Her flesh went slack and she said nothing, pressed into the back of the sofa.

Claude did not let go. He looked thoughtful, his tall frame bent over her. Slowly, he rotated to face Potter.

"I'm sure you two are very tired after your long day," he said politely. "Why don't you go on to bed? Your rooms would be up the staircase in the entrance hall, farthest on the left. They'll be clean as a whistle, I'm sure. Despite being a little rat, Penny was quite the housekeeper."

"Claude – " Potter stopped himself. Draco couldn't see his face, but could hear the indecision in his voice.

"Really, Harry. You've nothing to worry about." The man's eyes settled coolly on Potter.

He stiffened and stepped closer. "You were planning on it all along, weren't you?" Potter hissed. Draco felt his stomach drop. He wasn't Einstein or anything, but even _he_ knew that there was something in the air that said 'Just shut-up and get out!'

Claude's expression did not waver. "I don't know what you mean. Go on to bed. You've nothing to worry about."

Potter didn't move, but Draco could imagine his wavering expression. He abruptly turned about and he could see the stifled fury and fear in his face. Potter grabbed his arm tightly and spun him toward the door. Draco didn't need any more prompting and made no move to protest the rough treatment. He quickly left the room and entered the other, Potter on his heels, tepidly beginning to climb the staircase. Draco glanced behind. He made to say something, but the boy just shook his head brusquely. Reaching the landing, Potter pushed past and entered a bedroom. He followed silently.

"Close the door," snapped Potter. He edged tetchily toward the windows.

Draco quelled his annoyance and complied. The room was just as he expected – large, airy, gilded and comfortable. Everything was slathered in rich burgundy, from the antique four-poster to the fat wing-backed armchairs. Potter began pacing with clenched fists held like stones at his sides. He seemed to be gritting his teeth as his eyes leapt from one splendorous object to the next. Draco's head felt queer. And it wasn't just the nausea.

"He's not going to shoot her, is he?" he attempted, half-jokingly.

Potter stared at him. The meek grin on Draco's face died quickly. "Of course not," spat the brunette. "He doesn't need to."

He couldn't find a reply. For all his devil-may-care bravado, Draco doubted he really would have in all honesty been able to kill someone. Hell, he didn't even like having to back-up his threats of supreme ass-kickings. At all. It's much preferable to leave that to someone else. But what did he care about that woman? He didn't know her, and she obviously bit off more than she could chew. What did he care? Maybe there was someone who did care. He did think before that she was old enough to be his mother; was she someone's mother? Someone's wife? She was someone's daughter, for sure. Who was she leaving behind?

His stomach hurt. He'd be glad when this was all ended. If it did.

"What did you mean before, about saying he'd planned it all along?" Draco abruptly asked the still pacing Potter.

His eyes turned to him a little calmer but still eerie with a mixture of emotion. "He sent Léon away with Charles right after what he said. Léon..." He paused. "There's something not right with him."

Draco snorted, trying to draw back his good ol' confidence. "_Really_? I _never_ would have _noticed_!"

Potter gave him a look to kill. "Can't you be mature for _one minute_?" he snapped angrily.

Draco felt his neck redden. He shrugged stiffly and sniffed.

Shaking his head, Potter turned away. "As I said, Léon isn't quite right in the head. Charles told me a while ago that it's been like that ever since he was turned into a vampire. And even a little before that something was wrong with him. It's not easy for him, being what he is now. Everyone deals with it differently, but it's like he somehow is just..." Potter's face fell into a bemused expression. "It's like he's just refusing what he is."

"I don't get it," Draco said lamely.

"Shocker," Potter quipped nastily. Ouch. The brunette continued. "Charles says his personality for the most part is the same as when he was alive, but.. For one thing, he can't stand blood or killing or watching someone else drink. He just.." Potter sighed. He ran a tired hand through his mass of feral hair. He looked at Draco and there was only weariness there now. "Look, just go to bed. You're right across the hall, I think."

He wanted to know what exactly it was Léon did to survive if he couldn't stand blood, but didn't feel much like messing with Potter in such a pissy mood. "I thought you said not to be alone."

"You'll be fine if you don't go looking for trouble," Potter told him. He stared off distractedly. "We shouldn't have come here."

Draco tutted. "We'd be a bloody mess now if we hadn't, though, right?"

"Maybe."

He suddenly didn't feel so tired. Who was Potter to be all secretive and moody? "How did Claude know right off the bat that woman was a spy?"

The boy sat to take off his shoes. "He probably was suspecting it before now. I don't know. I just hope this isn't because of us. I'm sure it can't be though. It sounded like she'd been their housekeeper for a while now." He glanced up at Draco. "Just go get some sleep. I'll wake you up early and we'll leave first thing in the morning. We can talk then. And I'm sorry for being rude. It's just –" He struggled with his laces for a moment, lips thin. "_People don't have to die_."

Draco felt awkward. He thought again about how that woman could have a family. He opened the door. "Night, Potter."

"Night."

He entered his wonderful, deep green room and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep on the cushy mattresses under a canopy resembling olive heavens.

-

His mind slogging through cement, he sluggishly became aware that he was awake. He_ had _to_ piss_. _Now_.

Grumbling to himself, Draco slothed out of bed, scratching distractedly at his unmentionables. His feet pounded unsteadily across the dark bedroom. Yawning, he peered through the deep pitch of the hallway. Couldn't see diddly-squat. Oh well. He traipsed over the soft runner on the floor. A few doors only revealed empty, lonely bedrooms or sitting rooms lit by the heavens' night lights. Looking far down the hall, he spotted a faint glow slipping around a corner. Maybe they left the light on in the bathroom like good little hosts.

Draco walked down the hall and approached the door splitting the darkness with its intestines of electric illumination. Already a few inches open, the door gapped even further under his hand.

It was not the bathroom. Shadows bounded and trembled across the room's high walls, the dark features of long leather couches, wood side tables, deep-set sconces, and vague paintings making themselves known. In a large recliner near the center of the room, Draco thought for a minute there sat a beast of grotesque proportions. He blinked and saw it was Claude and Léon. Claude, sunk within the chair's confines, sat with his head resting and his eyes closed, hands placed lightly at Léon's sides. The boy kneelled above him with thin arms ensconced around the man's neck. Strangest of all, the blonde head was lowered to the revealed jugular, like a tremendous, thick-sinewed lion with its sun-mane effusing all about as it dipped leisurely to strip bare a carcass.

Draco froze, watching. He felt distinctly a deep shame and wrongdoing, the taboo. He was seeing something he was not supposed to see, something that should not be. His body unconsciously jerked. Léon looked up.

Draco had become illiterate – there was an expression traced deeply into the boy's pale, pretty face he could not read. He moved away from Claude, standing.

The man frowned, asking,"_Léon? Qu'est-ce–_" He saw Draco. Instantly, he grabbed for Léon and yelled, "_Charles_!"

Someone turned the world to fast forward. The boy dodged Claude eyes locked on Draco and body hurling – he was going to –

SMASHSMASH. Going to what, he didn't know, because the door had slammed shut before his face. Repeated blows slammed and thundered on it, making him back away reflexively. A different thump came from within. Then an awful, beastly wail flooded the house. He realized what that look had been – hunger brinking on starvation driven to savagery.

Draco suddenly recognized the fact that Charles's black, tall figure pressed against the door. He had closed it and had felt the blows.

Draco regained a sliver of his senses. "I– What–"

"Go back to your room." Pitiful cries resounded, angry and plaintive.

"But he's–!"

"Just go back." Those wails and howls entered his spine like mold, like rot. A hand grabbed him from behind. He heard Potter's voice.

"I'm sorry, Charles. I hadn't realized I'd taken in a half-wit cretin. _Come._" Draco staggered under Potter's vise, weaving after him down the hall. He was shoved into a room. Lights snapped on. He was roughly whirled about, made to face Potter like a child made to look his father in the face. The boy was enraged.

"Did your mother drink herself stupid when you were infesting her?" he spat.

Here, at least, was something he could grasp. He rose to his consequential height above Potter. "Don't you dare let my mother's name on your filthy tongue."

"Why not?" he hissed. "_Something_ needs to get through to you eventually, doesn't it? _I told you to stay in your room! _ You _imbecile!_ I am honestly, sincerely shocked that _anyone_ could be as mentally deficient as you are!"

"You _arrogant_ little _snotrag_!" Draco snarled. "I had to _piss_! Having to take a piss does not qualify for being an imbecile!"

Potter stared at him with a pinched facial muscles. He said very slowly, with clenched teeth, "There is a bathroom connected to your room."

"Oh." Draco deflated. He glowered defensively. "It's not my fault Claude's a pedophile."

Potter laughed hollowly. "Léon's older than me. Not just in being a vampire; he died when he was almost seventeen."

"What? That twat?" He asked. "He looks twelve!"

The boy did not answer and turned away. He sat down on the end of the bed, putting his face into his hands. Draco stood there awkwardly. He could still see it clearly – the mouth descended and the neck defenseless. Potter had just as much said before that Claude had drunk the spy's blood. Then did that mean Léon had pretty much done the same?

"Why can't you _listen _to what people tell you?" Potter demanded, sounding frustrated.

"Excuse me, but who said you could tell me–"

"This isn't about telling you what to do or ordering you about, you moron," he snapped. "I've been trying to tell you since day one that I'm doing all of this to goddam _help_ you." He abruptly stood, pacing. "You are so damn childish! Why is it that you are so thick that you can't realize people are trying to do what's _best__for you_!?"

Draco stiffened. He distinctly heard the voice of his father and his mother in those words, and he did not appreciate it. "It's not like–"

"Do you know what would have happened if it weren't for Charles?" interrupted Potter. "You would be dead, or near enough to it."

He remembered the terrible expression. It lingered on him and wanted his vitality. He sat down in Potter's vacated seat on the bed. "I don't understand any of this."

Potter stood still and watched him. He sat stiffly beside Draco, visibly trying to contain any more tongue lashings. Folding his arms across his chest, he breathed deeply. In the sudden silence the could hear those awful wails in the distance, echoing and expanding into strange mutations.

"I told you before that he wasn't right in the head. Obviously, that was an understatement," sighed Potter. "He was made under terrible circumstances and that's the only way he can – or rather will allow himself – to survive now. By drinking from someone else."

"And that makes him crazy?" Draco ventured.

Potter gave him a sour look. "No. It's _because_ he's crazy he has to do it. First of all, he refuses to drink by himself, second of all... He can't control blood lust."

The last was said as if of great import and Draco kept waiting for the explanation. "So?" he finally asked.

The boy sighed. "Use your brain. Don't you remember what I told you the other day? About drinking from humans? Or rather anything complex?"

Oh, right. Glutting yourself mad and all that cheery stuff. "So he'd be totally irredeemable if he didn't drink like that," Draco chanced.

"Yes," Potter nodded, knots of worry on his brow, "and Claude and Charles are skilled enough by now that they can anchor him. But what I don't understand is why Claude has to – Well anyway, there's something more important to worry about." He stood and began pacing again.

The blonde watched him. "Which is?"

"What they're going to do to us now."

Infuriated, Draco spluttered, "What _they_ are going to do to _us!?_ I don't know if you got the memo, but _I_ was the one almost ripped to shreds by a midget here."

Potter glanced at him with dark amusement. "Yes, but you see, the vampire community isn't a democracy. Our world does not function like normal people's. Those three are centuries older than us. Probably _millenia_ in Claude's case. They are much stronger than us, and if they wanted to get rid of us, they could. Quietly and without any fuss."

Refusing his instinct to gulp, Draco said, "I thought they were your friends."

Potter frowned. "They are but..."

"But what?"

"Don't snap at me. They are, but – Draco, you have to understand that their situation is highly unusual for vampires," he told him. "We're solitary people, and rarely every stay together for long. The fact that they've been together for three or four hundred years is incredible. So our attachments to one another are not the same as the ones humans develop."

"So.. We turn into loser loners?" he asked, dismayed.

"No," Potter said, amused for once. "We just seem unable to appreciate one another like humans can. I've been thinking that it's maybe because we can theoretically live forever and humans only have a very short time. So humans latch on to one another and try to stay together for as long as they can. But vampires just end up hating each other because we resemble one another or we just become indifferent because we have an eternity ahead of us."

"But then, does that mean you and I will hate each other some day?"

Potter stopped pacing and looked at him. He was the image of a normal fifteen-year-old boy – skinny and careless with himself, bespectacled and messy-headed. But extraordinary eyes, green as poison, bright and tired. Potter shrugged. "I don't know if it'll be _hate_. Maybe indifference or a bit of distaste. But most likely, yes." He ran a sluggish hand through his hair. "It happens the most with makers and the ones they made." There was a touch of acid and weary anger in his voice.

"Oh, that's right," Draco started, straightening. "Your maker – I mean, I get the fact that he's an ass and everything, but he's still your maker, right? I mean, it's not him Bellatrix is running amok for, so couldn't he do something to keep them from..." He stopped. Potter was grinning at him.

He shook his head, chuckling. "Draco, Claude is the maker of Tom's maker. And they all hate him. There are few people who don't."

"I don't get why that's so funny," Draco grumbled.

"Oh it's nothing. I just realized something I'd been trying to put my finger on for days," Potter smiled. "You, Mister Malfoy, are rather naïve."

Draco gaped at him, speechless. _ He_ was naïve? Not Mr. I-don't-need-a-tv-or-internet-to-survive? "_Excuse__ me!?_ I am _anything_ but naïve. In fact, I am the _complete_ opposite of naïve. I've screwed so many people–" A bit of an exaggeration, _but still_. "And done so many drugs and drank so much liquor–" He stopped.

Potter was bent over from laughter, scrambling at a stitch in his side. "Hee, that's not what I meant, doofus. I meant in a completely different way." He grinned at Draco as he rubbed laughter tears from his eyes. He shook his head. "You wouldn't understand even if I explained it to you."

"Damn straight I wouldn't. Naïve my ass."

Potter sighed. "Well, nevermind. Let's just get some sleep. It's not like we can do anything now."

Draco turned for the door immediately, ignoring Potter's added, "And for gawdssake, stay in your room!" He huffed back to the unlit olive room, flinging himself back into bed and into sleep, trying not to dream of night-time savannas quietly alive with the feasting of lions and the smell of helplessness.

-

**A/N**: I apologize for the long wait. And the next wait will probably be even longer. If you're interested in the actual reasons, see my bio.


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